A Patron for Pater

THE poet Morris is a chair,
Lord Kelvin’s now a Kelvinator;
Lister is a mouthwash. Where
Is honor done to Walter Pater?

Burns’ ashes stick to his cigar,
The name of Pasteur’s writ in milk:
Chief Pontiac’s a damn good car.
Why isn’t Pater of their ilk?

Beatty and Nelson — both hotels;
Grant’s a tomb; Lee, half a college;
Bell’s a system. Nothing sells
Us Walter Pater to my knowledge.

Audubon? He’s a feeding ground;
Lindbergh a light, a canyon Bryce;
La Guardia’s a field; but round
The world, poor Pater! Still no dice.

Lincoln? a highway; George? a lake;
McKinley? mountain; Jackson? park;
Franklin? an institute. Why stake
Old Walter out there in the dark?

Fame beckons. One becomes a dam,
A bridge, a watch, a kind of cheese,
A process, or a safety pram.
My client — he is none of these.

Industry! Public Works! Whose fault?
The sacred cows are all in clover.
Is Pater worth his attic salt?
It’s just an idea . . . think it over.