Tales of a Wayside Inn

When the long murmur of applause / That greeted the Musician's lay / Had slowly buzzed itself away, / And the long talk of Spectre Ships / That followed died upon their lips / And came unto a natural pause, / "These tales you tell are one and all / Of the Old World," the Poet said, / "Flowers gathered from a crumbling wall, / Dead leaves that rustle as they fall; / Let me present you in their stead / Something of our New England earth, / A tale which, though of no great worth, / Has still this merit, that it yields / A certain freshness of the fields, / A sweetness as of home-made bread."

The Student answered: "Be discreet; / For if the flour be fresh and sound, / And if the bread be light and sweet, / Who careth in what mill 't was ground, / Or of what oven felt the heat, / Unless, as old Cervantes said, / You are looking after better bread / Than any that is made of wheat? / You know that people nowadays / To what is old give little praise; / All must be new in prose and verse: / They want hot bread, or something worse, / Fresh every morning, and half baked; / The wholesome bread of yesterday, / Too stale for them, is thrown away, / Nor is their thirst with water slaked.