A poet's friends, who have the poet for friend,

Will tell him everything a poet should know,

Certain of what he must attack, defend,

Visit, avoid, remember, or outgrow.

They save him from himself for modesty

Her sake. They have but recently beheld

Pink sunsets fit for first-rate poetry.

They feed him their emotions not quite jelled.

They buy his latest book at bargain sales,

And tell him so, and ask his signature.

They ask him to confirm the racy tales

Of poets dead. They tell him this obscure,

This highbrow stuff, is not red meat for males,

And that there is no Cash in Literature.

They introduce him as "a poet"-or

They don't. They ask if he will read "his things,"

Amusement they would pay a pianist for.

They ask if love gives inspiration wings.

They praise a rival (curses!) when they list

The poets of promise of the current year.

They give his own work some ingenious twist

Of meaning past his plan, but not his fear.

May they present their dearest friend, who writes

Who also writes," they say. They speak of power

In motor cars, but not to him, and not of fights

Or football games or golf. They pick a flower,

And speak to him of nature's rare delights.

Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour!