In a wry, self-mocking voice, the speaker confesses he was once a poet, but absolutely nobody recognized it—not his mother, siblings, the rich, the poor, or the reverend. Uncle Ned said he was crazy, which, coming from a colonial, he takes as a backhanded compliment. Because people assumed genius owes a good deal to drink, he now declares he is no poet and his inspiration has run dry. What’s the point of cultivating the muse, he shrugs, if ordinary folk can’t tell a village pump from a church steeple? He’s really just apologizing for the lack of surprises in tonight’s writing. He means well, but something always gets in the way between what he intends and what others say he had in his head. It’s all very puzzling. Uncle Ned thinks poets need muzzling, and the speaker, half-serious, admits he might be right, then says good-night. The mood is playful, gently exasperated, and quietly funny—a man laughing at his own invisibility.
Song of Myself — Summary
I was a Poet! But I did not know it, Neither did my Mother, Nor my Sister nor my Brother. The Rich were not aware of it; The Poor took no care of it. The Reverend Mr. Drewitt Never knew it. The High did not suspect it; The Low could not detect it. Aunt Sue Said it was obviously untrue. Uncle Ned Said I was off my head: (This from a Colonial Was really a good testimonial.) Still everybody seemed to think That genius owes a good deal to drink. So that is how I am not a poet now, And why My inspiration has run dry. It is no sort of use To cultivate the Muse If vulgar people Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple. I am merely apologizing For the lack of the surprising In what I write To-night. I am quite well-meaning, But a lot of things are always intervening Between What I mean And what it is said I had in my head. It is all very puzzling. Uncle Ned Says Poets need muzzling. He might Be right. Good-night!