A poet sat beneath a tree,
A pad and pencil on his knee,
And nothing, though he pondered long,
Came from his Muse in way of song,
“It has in truth been said sometime–
No matter what great thought sublime–
No new thing is in earth or sky;
The sleeping dogs let lie shall I”.
Ten times ten thousand verses on
The stars, the elm, the well-kept lawn–
The common things about us all–
Can never on our senses pall:
The things we know, we like to heer;
The old tunes still sound good this year.
So poet, wrestle with thy trade–
And say it, though it has been said!
by Ray Romine Thursday, January 1, 1942
