O BARD of fortune, you deem me nought
But a mark for your careless scorn.
For I am the echo-less grave of thought
That is strangled before it-s born.
You think perchance that I am a doom
Which only a dunce should dread-
Nor dream I-ve been the dishonoured tomb
Of the noblest and brightest dead.
The brightest fancies that e-er can fly
From the labouring minds of men
Are often written in lines awry,
And marred by a blundering pen;
And thus it comes that I gain a part
Of what to the world is loss-
Of genius lost for the want of art,
Of pearls that are set in dross.
And though I am of a lowly birth
My fame has been cheaply bought,
A power am I, for I rob the earth
Of the brightest gems of thought;
The Press gains much of my lawful share,
I am wronged without redress-
But I have revenge, for I think it fair
That I should plunder the Press.
You-d pause in wonder to read behind
The lines of some songs I see;
The soul of the singer I often find
In songs that are thrown to me.
But the song of the singer I bury deep
With the scrawl of the dunce and clown,
And both from the eyes of the world I keep,
And the hopes of both I drown.
The Song Of The Waste-paper Basket
Henry Lawson
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Poem topics: birth, dream, loss, lost, power, song, soul, earth, deep, share, grave, thrown, fortune, gain, world, thought, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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