Connoisseurs

“No,” said the Cultured Critic, gazing haughtily
Whereon some untrained brush had wandered naughtily,
From canons free;
“Work such as this lacks value and perspective,
Has no real feeling,—inner or reflective,—
Does not appeal to me.”

Then quoth the vulgar, knowing art but meagrely,
Their unbesought opinions airing eagerly,
“Why, ain’t that flat?”
Voicing their ignorance all unconcernedly,
Saying of what the Critic scored so learnedly,
“I don’t like that!”

The Critic now vouchsafed approval sparingly
Of what some genius had attempted daringly,
“This fellow tries;
He handles his conception frankly, feelingly.
Such work as this, done strongly and appealingly,
I recognize.”

The vulgar, gazing widely and unknowingly,
Still volunteered their cheap impressions flowingly,
“Oh, come and see!”
But all that they could say of art’s reality
Was this poor voice of poorer personality,
“Now, that suits me!”