Chapter 35 two poems

two poems Many centuries ago, two poets met each other on the road to Athens, and they were very happy to see each other. One poet asked another: "What have you been writing lately? How has your lyre sounded?" The other replied proudly: "I have just written my greatest poem, perhaps in Greek The greatest psalm ever written. It is a psalm in prayer to the supreme god Zeus." Then he took a roll of parchment from under his cloak, and said: "Well, look, I've brought my poems, and I'm glad to read them to you. Come, let us sit in the shade of that cypress tree." ."

The poet read his poems aloud.That is a long poem. Another poet said kindly, "This is a great poem. It will be passed on from generation to generation, and you will be famous for it." The first poet asked calmly: "So what have you been writing these days?" The other replied: "I have written very little. I only wrote eight lines in memory of a man playing in the garden. of my child." Then he recited the eight lines. The first poet said, "Not bad, not bad." So they broke up. Now more than two thousand years have passed, the eight-line poem is still chanted in everyone's mouth, and everyone loves and cherishes it.

That long poem, though it is true, has been handed down from generation to generation in libraries, in the libraries of scholars; though it is remembered, it is neither loved nor read. The Two Poems Many centuries ago, on a road to Athens, two poets met, and they were glad to see one another. And one poet asked the other saying, "What have you composed of late, and how goes it with your lyre?" And the other poet answered and said with pride, "I have but now finished the greatest of my poems, perchance the greatest poem yet written in Greek. It is an invocation to Zeus the Supreme."

Then he took from beneath his cloak a parchment, saying, "Here, behold, I have it with me, and I would fain read it to you. Come, let us sit in the shade of that white cypress." And the poet read his poem. And it was a long poem. And the other poet said in kindliness, "This is a great poem. It will live through the ages, and in it you shall be glorified." And the first poet said calmly, "And what have you been writing these late days?" And the other another, "I have written but little. Only eight lines in remembrance of a child playing in a garden." And he recited the lines.

The first poet said, "Not so bad; not so bad." And they parted. And now after two thousand years the eight lines of the one poet are read in every tongue, and are loved and cherished. And though the other poem has indeed come down through the ages in libraries and in the cells of scholars, and though it is remembered, it is neither loved nor read.