When Once A Seed Is Planted

When once a seed is planted in the earth,

Its growth requires proper care and means,

Lest it should die in very act of birth

Without sufficient strength to grow its greens.

Just so the poet, when he first conceives

A thought which his imagination seeks

To give expression, must not then bereave

His infant charge of aught his trade bespeaks.

The farmer plows the fertile soil deep

To loosen it and give place to the seed;

The poet must a fruitful quiet keep

To give his thoughts the mental room they need.

Once clear, the farmer guards his planted field,

Lest uninvited sprouts should thrive and feed;

The poet, if he seeks a proper yield,

Must clear his mind of noise and mental weed.

No thing can grow without pure water’s aid;

Such does the farmer need in good supply,

And what does not descend from clouded shade

His crops must gain from other means or die.

So too the poet needs the heav’nly rain

Of inspiration moistening his mind;

If drought should strike, his hand shall write in vain

Until some other wellspring he may find.

A farmer seeks a rich and fertile soil

And sturdy tools well suited to his trade,

That he may profit better from his toil,

With greater fruits well tended and arrayed.

A poet should select with equal care

The surface and utensils for his craft,

So that whatever words are written there

May fly as surely as an arrow-shaft.

For bean and corn can grow in any crack

Between the rocks where soil has chanced to fall,

But hungry birds and beasts shall snatch it back,

Or blight shall stunt it, if it grows at all.

And any word and wall can carry thought

And render visible the poet’s mind,

But those who see it, understanding not,

May still abuse and mar the marks they find.

Of course, e’en in a well-protected field

The crops may be destroyed by sudden hail,

And carefully chosen words may poets wield

And yet be burned with them to no avail,

But still seeds must be planted, words be writ,

If man and all he treasures would survive,

And so he must use virtue, might, and wit

To keep his body and his soul alive.

Amidst the perils of this world, I deem

It best to travel by a middle way,

And not to let allure of fame, esteem,

Or power cause us to be led astray,

Climbing what seems an ever-broadening path

From hill to mountain-top to very sun,

Until at last, beat down by Apollo’s wrath,

Our blinded eyes behold what we have done.

Nor on the other hand should we allow

Discouragement to dull our hearts’ desire

And cause despair to settle on the brow

And sluggish feet to sink into the mire.

It is our task to find our proper place

Where, like the seed, we each may grow and thrive,

So that each one of us may lift his face

And breathe and truly be a man alive,

And root himself and stand up like a tree.

Thus may our varied works bear fruit aright:

When farmers find that farming makes them free,

And poets serve the truth by how they write.