The Poet Climbed the Stairs.
He carried all of his wares.
A poet
Of Meaning,
Of beauty —
Not blurbs —
A master of feelings and cares.

He knocked on the editor's door,
A door only dreamed of before.
It opened,
He entered,
They met,
He sat,
A poet of courage, and more.

The editor read and read,
"Your poems are fine," he said.
"They've meter,
And rhymes,
At times,
But, really, good poetry's dead."

The poet nodded his head.
Poetry was not what was dead.
A very skilled predator,
The unholy editor —
His principle duty
Was fashion,
Not beauty.
"Your aim is too high," he said.

by Robert Hampton Burt
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