To a Young Poet

Tired of work? Then drop away
From the land of cheerful day!
Pen the muse, and drive the pen
If you'd stay with living men.

Fancy fails? Then pluck from those
Gardens where her blossom blows;
Trim the buds and wire them well,
And your bouquet's sure to sell.

Write, write, write! Produce, produce!
Write for sale, and not for use.
This is a commercial age!
Write! and fill your ledger page.

If your soul should droop and die,
Bury it with undimmed eye.
Never mind what memory says--
Soul's a thing that never pays!