Obituary of a Poet
Floyd Dell
Adonaisis dead—dead in the flush of youth, with all of life before him.
Yes, but perhaps that is not such a bad thing.
“He had so much of promise!” That’s the trouble. When the promise petered out—as it usually does—what then?
As it is, he will never have to see his great hopes dwindle. He will never have to bolster himself against disillusion.
Adonais has known the sweet of life—he has known the glory of youth, and the gay companionship of men, and the taste of good liquor in the mouth. He has known the joy of hard work, and the joy of roaming the streets, idle and curious, feeling the beauty of the world; he has known the joy of love.
Fortunate Adonais!
He did not know that it was possible for the love of women to become to him a cheap article, to be appraised with practiced eye and perhaps tossed carelessly aside; he was a lover—
And now he will never be cruel or careless about love, an exploiter and parasite of women. He will never have to emerge, with false hope and courage, from the humiliation of the Keeley cure. He will never parade the streets with a dyed moustache—a broken-down boulevardier.
He will never read with secret malignant envy the enthusiastic words of reviewers about the writings of younger men. He will never foregather with other has-beens in the charitable precincts of a club, to exchange compliments and listen hungrily to the accents of praise. He will never be a perambulating tombstone to a forgotten poet.
He is dead in the flush of youth—
Lucky Adonais!