I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,
The poets corner, and the page,
For Grief and Death are written there,
In every land and every age.
The poets sing and play their parts,
Their daring cheers, their humour shines,
But, ah! my friends! their broken hearts
Have writ in blood between the lines.
They fought to build a Commonwealth,
They write for women and for men,
They give their youth, we give their health
And never prostitute the pen.
Their work in other tongues is read,
And when sad years wear out the pen,
Then they may seek their happy dead
Or go and starve in exile then.
A grudging meed of praise you give,
Or, your excuse, the ready lie,
(O! God, you dont know how they live!
O! God, you dont know how they die!)
The poetess,...