Poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams (1862-1893)



Yes, let Art go, if it must be
    That with it men must starve -
If Music, Painting, Poetry
    Spring from the wasted hearth.


Pluck out the flower, however fair,
    Whose beauty cannot bloom,
(However sweet it be, or rare)
    Save from a noisome tomb.


These social manners, charm and ease,
    Are hideous to who knows
The degradation, the disease
    From which their beauty flows.


So, Poet, must thy singing be;
    O Painter, so thy scene;
Musician, so thy melody,
    While misery is queen.


Nay, brothers, sing us battle-songs
    With clear and ringing rhyme;
Nay, show the world its hateful wrongs,
    And bring the better time!



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Written on 2021-09-13 at 00:20

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MetaPoetics The PoetBay support member heart!
This is very interesting . . . and quaint. I especially like the third stanza as I can relate to it more. Thank you for introducing us to the poetry of Francis Adams.