Many centuries ago, on a road to Athens, two poets met, and they were glad to see one another.

And one poet asked the other saying, “What have you composed of late, and how goes it with your lyre?”

And the other poet answered and said with pride, “I have but now finished the greatest of my poems, perchance the greatest poem yet written in Greek. It is an invocation to Zeus the Supreme.”

Then he took from beneath his cloak a parchment, saying, “Here, behold, I have it with me, and I would fain read it to you. Come, let us sit in the shade of that white cypress.”

And the poet read his poem. And it was a long poem.

And the other poet said in kindliness, “This is a great poem. It will live through the ages, and in it you shall be glorified.”

And the first poet said calmly, “And what have you been writing these late days?”

And the other another, “I have written but little. Only eight lines in remembrance of a child playing in a garden.” And he recited the lines.

The first poet said, “Not so bad; not so bad.”

And they parted.

And now after two thousand years the eight lines of the one poet are read in every tongue, and are loved and cherished.

And though the other poem has indeed come down through the ages in libraries and in the cells of scholars, and though it is remembered, it is neither loved nor read.