writing is sorrow; having had written is sublime
April's Premiere alone is Claimed
To be the Day of Dullards
While All its Days have been Proclaimed
To be the Month of Bards
In you, you presume a Poet Resides
And with Ballads you are the Master
Alas in you nary a Rhyme doth Hide
For you are just a Fool Poetaster
But today alone We shall All Proclaim
Your Verse fit for Angels on High
Just don't forget that Today Alone
We are given Pass to Lie
How long, you simpletons, will you insist on being simpleminded? How long will you mockers relish your mocking? How long will you fools hate knowledge?
Proverbs 1:22, New Living Translation
O, but the mockers’ cry
Makes my heart afraid,
As though a flute of bone
Taken from a heron’s thigh,
A heron crazed by the moon,
Were cleverly, softly played
From The Collected Works of W. B. Yeats