Letter To Howard Nemerov Poem by Edward Steinhardt

When I was a child
And my father pressed my small hand
Into his large one,
I did all I could do
Just to keep up
With those determined grown-up legs.
Sometimes I kept up,
Sometimes I didn't.
I mostly went along for a view.

Tonight, moths beat against
The evening screen,
Keeping the instinctive
Vernal urge to have things
Come together in the end.
A couple do get through
The rent in the screen.

Congratulations, Howard,
On getting chiefly through
The blast of your critics
To your present public acclaim.
You have earned it,
And that room you spoke of
In 'What Does the Consultant
In Poetry Do? '
You're still just the best
Damn writer on paper-
And I mean that.
And you've outlived your critics, too.

May you be blessed, friend,
With a muse of inspiration
Always at your back,
Until that squadron
Of comrades gone before
Drones by and takes you
Past the mortal corridor.