You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
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j'aime beaucoup
Simple yet quaint, this poem is reinforces his philosophy on the creation of art and poetry firmly established by 'Adam’s Curse' in 1902. In it Yeats wrote:
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
These eleven lines clearly articulate his steadfast belief that art is something the poet or artist must strive assiduously to create else, the result shall never be beautiful. Yeats reminds the reader that a good poet will contemplate each line for hours maybe, reminding also the lack of praise artists receive from society. He is not only in contempt of the political climate, (as most were in turn of the twentieth century Ireland), but also with the intellectual state of affairs. Yeats is aware how difficult idyllic art is to create and that few are imbued with that certain fecundity he possesses. To not acknowledge, nay, go as far as disparage a man’s arduous work by declaring him an idler is going much too far. That is exactly what society has done to him, one of the few true artists of his time.
From these earlier feelings, contempt for the ingenuous artist (excuse the oxymoron) has burgeoned. Yeats is troubled that he must often give his tongue in praise of what other others have created, though he regards much of their work to be philistine, at best. With this view on their work, one can follow why he concocts the image of himself a dog and other poets to be his fleas when he poses the question: “But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?” However deserving this poetic browbeating might have been, Yeats set himself up for hardship and misunderstanding with his future contemporaries, including James Joyce. Many would consider To a Poet perchance, a trifle caustic and that he has, at this point in his career, a supercilious and impudent view of his striving contemporaries.
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