What am I after all but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own
name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear—it never tires me.
To you your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in
the sound of your name?
W.W.
Truly, there are poets entirely convinced of their own relevance amid the stars. A poem about fairies and
bunyips would no doubt start a revolution from which Australia could never recover; having
one's own good name attached might inaugurate unending woe. Oh, the bloodshed.
Threaded Mode
