The book sold well My publisher (who published at my risk, And first put on the airs of one who stooped To grant a favor), brimmed and overflowed With courtesy; and ere a year was gone, Became importunate for something more. This was his plea: I owed it to myself To write again. The time to make one's hay Is when the sun shines: time to write one's books Is when the public humor turns to them. The public would forget me in a year, And seek another idol; or, meanwhile, Another writer might usurp my throne, And I be hooted from my own domain As a pretender. Then the market's maw Was greedy for my poems. Just how long The appetite would last, he could not tell, For appetite is subject of caprice, And never lasts too long. The man was wise, I plainly saw, and gave me the results Of observation and experience. I took his hint, accepting with a pang The truths that came with it: for instance, these:-- That he who speaks for praise of those who live, Must keep himself before his audience, Nor look for "bravas," cheers, and cries of "hear! And clap of hands and stamp of feet, except With fresh occasion; that applause of crowds, Though fierce, runs never to the chronic stage; That good paymasters, having paid for work The doer's price, expect receipt in full At even date; and that if I would keep My place, as grand purveyor to the greed For novelties of literary art, My viands must be sapid, and abound With change, to wake or whet the appetite I sought to feed. I say I took his hint. Bestowed in selfishness, without a doubt, Though in my interest. For ten long years It was the basis of my policy. I poured my poems with redundancy Upon the world, and won redundant meed. If I gave much, the world was generous, Repaying more than justice: but, at last, Tired and disgusted, I laid down my pen. I knew my work would not outlast my life, That the enchantments which had wreathed themselves Around my name were withering away, With every breath of fragrance they exhaled; And that, too soon, the active brain and hand Whose skill had conjured them, would faint and fail Under the press of weariness and years. My reputation piqued me. None believed That it was in me to write otherwise Than I had written. All the world had laughed, Or shaken its wise head, had I essayed A work beyond the round of brilliancies In which my pen had revelled, and for which It gave such princely guerdon. If I looked, Or came to look, with measureless contempt On those who gave with such munificence The boon I sought, I had provoking cause. I fooled them all with patent worthlessness, And they insisted I should fool them still. The wisdom of a whole decade had failed To teach them that the thing my hand had done Was not worth doing.