“Yes—aloud.”
He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him;
thrilled as she regarded the written lines. George
begged her read. She would not— well,
she would. She paused. Modesty and pride
gathered on her cheeks, tuned her voice low.
She read:
“So you have tried—So
you have known
The burning effort for success,
The quick belief in your own prowess and
your skill,
The bitterness of failure, and the joy
Of sweet success.”
“‘Burning effort,’” George
said. “That’s fine!”
“I’m glad you like that. And ’quick
belief’—you know what I mean?”
“Oh, rather.”
The poet warmed again over her words.
“So you have tried—
So you have known
The blind-eyed groping towards the goal
That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt,
Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon
Fading from sight.”
“Sort of blank verse, isn’t it?”
George asked.
“Well, sort of,” the poet allowed.
“Not exactly, of course.”
“Of course not,” George agreed firmly.
Margaret breathed the next fine lines.
“So you have tried—
So you have known
The bitter-sweetness of Attempt,
The quick determination and the dread
despair
That grapple and possess you as you strive
For imagery.”
George questioned: “Imagery...?”
“That verse is more for me than you,”
the poet explained. “’For imagery’—to
get the right word, you know.”
“Rather!” said George. “It
does for me too—in exams, when one is floored,
you know.”
“Yes,” Margaret admitted doubtfully.
“Ye-es. Don’t interrupt between the
verses, dear.”
Now emotion swelled her voice.
“Success be yours!
May you achieve
To heights you do not dream you’ll
ever touch;
The power’s to your hand, the road
before you lies—
Forward! The gods not always frown;
anon
They’ll kindly smile.”
“Why, that’s splendid!” George cried.
He put a cousinly arm about the poet; squeezed her
to him. “Fancy you writing that for me!
What a sympathetic little soul you are—and
how clever!”
Breathless she disengaged herself: “I’m
so glad you like it. It’s a silly little
thing—but it’s real, isn’t
it? Come, there’s father.”
She paused against denial of the poem’s silliness,
affirmation of its truth; but George, moody beneath
Mr. Marrapit’s eye, glinting behind the window,
had moved forward.
Margaret thrust the paper in her bosom, tucked in
where heart might warm against heart’s child.
Constantly during breakfast her mind reverted to it,
drummed its rare lines.
Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped.
Yet Margaret had called her poem silly. Here,
then, was mock-modesty by diffidence seeking praise.
But this mock-modesty, which horribly abounds to-day,
is only natural product of that furious modesty which
has come to be expected in all the arts.
