The Growth of Love

They that in play can do the thing they would,
Having an instinct throned in reason's place,
--And every perfect action hath the grace
Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood--
These are the best: yet be there workmen good
Who lose in earnestness control of face,
Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base
Reach to their end by steps well understood.

Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains
Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,
--Even as a painter breathlessly who stains
His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--
Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,
Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

Alas the critic! See how he serves his art!
Broken and tired, he strives to guide the crowds
And yet unacknowledged, his glory fades
As only those he writes about 
Are garlanded with the laurel wreath.

A hundredscore entries, cut and pasted without care,
This database unique in scale and scope.
His only ally, who speaks in foreign tongues
Is more uncredited than the Criticulous,
Who claims the numbers as his own.

It has been said, by a wiser voice
That the Fringe is a pit iniquitous
And venal: still he crawls through the ink
Rivers: the stains he presents bodily
Become the post and platform both.

Alas the critic! See how he serves himself!
Arrogant and angry, he strives to win a prize
And yet unacknowledged, his glory fades
As only those he writes about 
Are garlanded with the laurel wreath.