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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416422" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Poet To His Baby Son</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tiny bit of humanity, <br>Blessed with your mother’s face, <br>And cursed with your father’s mind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I say cursed with your father’s mind, <br>Because you can lie so long and so quietly on your back, <br>Playing with the dimpled big toe of your left foot, <br>And looking away, <br>Through the ceiling of the room, and beyond. <br>Can it be that already you are thinking of being a poet? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why don’t you kick and howl, <br>And make the neighbors talk about <br>“That damned baby next door,” <br>And make up your mind forthwith <br>To grow up and be a banker <br>Or a politician or some other sort of go-getter <br>Or—?—whatever you decide upon, <br>Rid yourself of these incipient thoughts <br>About being a poet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For poets no longer are makers of songs, <br>Chanters of the gold and purple harvest, <br>Sayers of the glories of earth and sky, <br>Of the sweet pain of love <br>And the keen joy of living; <br>No longer dreamers of the essential dreams, <br>And interpreters of the eternal truth, <br>Through the eternal beauty. <br>Poets these days are unfortunate fellows. <br>Baffled in trying to say old things in a new way <br>Or new things in an old language, <br>They talk abracadabra <br>In an unknown tongue, <br>Each one fashioning for himself <br>A wordy world of shadow problems, <br>And as a self-imagined Atlas, <br>Struggling under it with puny legs and arms, <br>Groaning out incoherent complaints at his load. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My son, this is no time nor place for a poet; <br>Grow up and join the big, busy crowd <br>That scrambles for what it thinks it wants <br>Out of this old world which is—as it is— <br>And, probably, always will be. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Take the advice of a father who knows: <br>You cannot begin too young <br>Not to be a poet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Weldon+Johnson">James Weldon Johnson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416422" data-title="A Poet To His Baby Son de James Weldon Johnson" data-description="Tiny bit of humanity, 
Blessed with your mother’s face, 
And cursed with your father’s mind. 

I say cursed with your father’s mind, 
Because you can lie so long and so quietly on your back, 
Playing with the dimpled big toe of your left foo..."></div>
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