THE critic sat within his book-lined study
Scalpel in hand, and coldly eyed mischance.
Though some men’s heads were bowed, his was not bloody.
He scorned the feverish clutch of circumstance.
For to create at all is hot and daring,
So he had given few hostages to fate.
There’s trouble, if the tortoise takes an airing,
And he withdraws into his armor-plate.
The critic smiled and viewed his words with relish.
How smoothly from that author peeled the hide!
If one fierce phrase seemed really rather Hellish,
That it was true was not to be denied.
And truth is Beauty — and Truth — well, well I wonder?
He punned. Oh, blast these books I founder in!
When will it lightning, when will it even thunder? —
Asked Jove, while the world shook — and sipped his gin.