Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down
Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
Don Marquis, with wit sharpened by sorrow and truth, once declared: “Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.” In this image, delicate yet immense, he revealed the loneliness of the poet and the silence that so often greets the voice of art. For the rose petal is fragile, and the Grand Canyon vast; so too is the poet’s offering small against the abyss of the world’s indifference. To cast out words, to release them into the endless chasm of time and humanity, is to risk hearing nothing in return.
The origin of this thought lies in Marquis’s own life as a humorist, journalist, and poet in early twentieth-century America. He knew well the struggles of writers who poured their souls into verse, only to find their works unnoticed, unbought, unread. The world, intoxicated with speed, profit, and novelty, often gives little heed to the quiet voice of poetry. In comparing publication to the rose petal falling into the canyon, Marquis captures both the beauty of the poet’s effort and the despair of its apparent futility. Verse, no matter how lovely, may vanish into silence.
The ancients too understood this burden. Consider the Greek poet Hesiod, whose works were overshadowed by Homer in his own time, yet who spoke nonetheless of justice and labor. Or Ovid, exiled from Rome, who sent out his poems from banishment with no knowledge if they would reach sympathetic ears. Like Marquis, they knew that poetry is often received with silence. And yet, like the rose petal, their words carried beauty even if no echo answered them at once. The lesson of their lives proves that the silence of the present does not mean the death of the poem—only that its echo may return in another age.
Think also of Emily Dickinson, who in her lifetime saw almost none of her poems published. She wrote for herself, for the drawer, for eternity, casting rose petals into a canyon she could not see. And yet, long after her death, her work resounded with immense force, becoming one of the great voices of American poetry. Her story shows us that while the canyon may seem silent, the echo may arrive far later, long after the poet has ceased to listen. Thus, Marquis’s metaphor carries both despair and hope: despair in the silence, hope in the unseen echo.
But the wisdom of this saying is not only for poets. It belongs to all who create, all who labor with love in a world that may not answer. Teachers who plant seeds in students’ hearts, parents who give counsel, inventors who toil unseen—all drop their rose petals into the canyon of time. They may hear no echo, but their acts are not lost. Beauty and truth may vanish in the moment, but they remain alive in hidden ways, awaiting the hour when their sound will return.
The teaching is clear: do not measure the worth of your work by the world’s applause. The canyon is vast, and the echo may take years, decades, or centuries to return. Trust instead in the act itself: in the beauty of the rose petal, in the necessity of casting it forth. For in the eyes of the Eternal, no act of beauty, no word of truth, is ever wasted. What seems silence may in time become thunder.
Practical wisdom flows from this. If you are a poet, write; if you are an artist, create; if you are a soul seeking truth, speak it. Do not be discouraged by silence. Your duty is not to command the echo, but to release the petal. Live not for recognition, but for fidelity to the truth that burns within you. In this way, your life itself becomes poetry—a steady scattering of rose petals that, one day, may fill the canyon with fragrance and song.
So let Marquis’s words endure in your heart: “Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.” It is the poet’s lament, but also the poet’s calling. Cast your petals, knowing the canyon is vast, but also knowing that every act of beauty has its place in eternity. For the echo may not return to your ears—but it will return. And that is enough.
BTThe Bao Tran
Marquis’ quote made me reflect on the quiet perseverance involved in poetry. Publishing a volume of verse may not yield immediate recognition, but is it possible that the poet is more concerned with expressing something personal and meaningful, regardless of the response? How do poets navigate the tension between the desire for validation and the intrinsic value of their work? Does this quote challenge our expectations about art’s impact?
MKVo Minh Khoi
I find Marquis’ analogy of dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon both beautiful and sobering. It suggests that, much like a small gesture in a vast world, poetry can sometimes feel insignificant. But is that the nature of art—creating something that may be small in the grand scheme but still holds value for the creator? Can the act of creation alone provide satisfaction, even if no one else hears the echo?
BNDo Nhat Bach Ngu
This quote paints a poignant picture of the often solitary journey of a poet. It makes me wonder if publishing poetry is truly about the art itself or about the anticipation of how it will be received. Can a poet feel fulfilled even if their work doesn’t generate the ‘echo’ they expect? Or is there an inherent need for external validation to make the act of publishing worthwhile?
TVLe Ha Thanh Van
Marquis' quote resonates with the idea that poetry, like art, often feels like an isolated act. If a poet publishes a volume of verse, does that mean they’re waiting for validation or simply hoping their words leave an impact, however subtle? How much of a poet’s satisfaction comes from internal reflection, and how much comes from external recognition? Does the lack of ‘echo’ mean the work wasn’t worth creating?
BDBao Duy
Don Marquis’ comparison of publishing poetry to dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon feels like a commentary on the fleeting and sometimes unnoticed nature of a poet’s work. Does it imply that poetry, despite its beauty, often goes unheard or unappreciated in the vast expanse of the world? How do poets deal with the possibility that their work might not get the attention or recognition they hope for? Is that something they accept as part of the creative process?