The plaything of the winds, I stand; a jest
For idle children who draw near to stare
Or, mocking, pluck the sordid rags I wear:
The farmer's faded coat and filthy vest.
Of all my former honours dispossessed
I scarce avail from fruit and corn to scare
The thievish birds, contented if none dare
Pluck out my straw-stuffed limbs to line his nest.
Yet once my altar lacked no offerings:
The first fruits of the fields and vineyards round
Were mine by right; in Spring my brows were bound
With painted flowers; and at my foot the sod
Drank the hot blood of goats; for with such things
Men honoured me, Priapus, as a god.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Sunday, February 09, 2014
The Scarecrow
E. Keppel Bennett (1887-1958), "The Scarecrow," in Cambridge Poets 1914-1920. An Anthology Compiled by Edward Davison (Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons, Ltd., 1920), p. 20: