Ernest O'Ferrall Poems
- The Poet To be a poet is to bring A furrowed brow, a piece ...
- The Settled Bards These be the grim suburban days, And, tho'...
- The Man Next Door Fragments of song around me lie, Fair ...
- The Mad Poet 'I am the sun!' the poet yelled, And danced ...
- The Victor A fierce, gray wind blows out of the north, And ...
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Comments about Ernest O'Ferrall
To be a poet is to bring
A furrowed brow, a piece of string,
And pen and ink and paper white Into a lonely room at night,
And, while the wingéd hours do fly,
To write a rhyme a crown will buy.
Whereas, when first ye sat ye down,
Ye dreamed the rhyme would buy a crown.
To be a poet is to owe,
And here and there in stealth to go;
To fly on swift impassioned feet
From wrathful traders in the street;
For odes and lyrics, tho' they be
Exquisite, are not currency.
No butcher will an MS. take
As fair exchange for good rump steak.