Fame
As I came down into the Place of Spain,
Above the motors tooting in the streets
I heard a voice that asked, “Well, who was Keats?”
In the best accent of Nebraska’s plain.
A thin but rigid female, who in vain
Perused her Baedeker’s close-printed sheets,
Answered: “An Irish Poet,” scattering sweets
Of information to the Vast Inane.
Who was he? A voice, forgotten in some quarters
Apparently. The mortal lyric cry
Stilled by the house where the man came to die;
A lost identity of long ago;
Music and love quenched by the many waters.
Who was he? Do the critics really know?
Credit
From Guinea-Fowl and Other Poultry (Harper & Brothers, 1927) by Leonard Bacon. Copyright © 1927 by Harper & Brothers. This poem is in the public domain.
Date Published
01/01/1927