Gleaners of Fame: A September Sonnet
by Alfred AustinHearken not, friend, for the resounding din
That did the Poet's verses once acclaim:
We are but gleaners in the field of fame,
Whence the main harvest hath been gathered in.
The sheaves of glory you are fain to win,
Long since were stored round many a household name,
The reapers of the Past, who timely came,
And brought to end what none can now begin.
Yet, in the stubbles of renown, 'tis right
To stoop and gather the remaining ears,
And carry homeward in the waning light
What hath been left us by our happier peers;
So that, befall what may, we be not quite
Famished of honor in the far-off years.
Somewhat ironic, perhaps. Austin was appointed Poet Laureate in 1896, a number of years after publishing this sonnet, and spent the rest of his career being criticized for not deserving it and only having received it because of his friendship with Lord Salisbury. (The derogatory nickname that seems to be remembered even today is "The Banjo Byron".) He's quite a decent poet, but he followed Southey, Wordsworth, and Tennyson; almost no one was going to look impressive after that string of greats. It probably didn't help that earlier in his career he had foolishly written literary criticism bashing some of the great poetic names of the day, and, despite his poetic competence, his own poetry was not good enough to back up his big talk.
