“that giftless bastard”

I disagree. But I can see his grudge.
Every time Brahms writes, he works, where we mean works,
Struggles, toils, aches, and moves lentissimo:
Ten years on this symphony, months on that song
(Schubert could write two great lieder a day),
And, once, when Mahler left his apartment,
He thought he heard a growling sound inside,
Which would not surprise Tchaikovsky at all,
Nor should it us if we listen to Brahms.
But many don’t. Auden disliked his music —
Generally, he disliked the “Romantic” —
And I’ve met others of similar tastes.
Very well. But “giftless bastard” still seems harsh,
And I’m not cribbing with the “Lullaby”
(Although I’ve sung the German and it moved me).
Also, I’m well aware Brahms hardly needs me
In his defense, I’m just an amateur,
And many far greater than I can sing
The praises of this “giftless bastard.”
Still, I have this to say, and in “earnest” 
(Like some of his songs). 
                                                        Probably abused
When he was a boy, helplessly in love
With Schumann’s wife, Clara Vieck, who loved him
To no avail (nineteenth-century morals —
And let’s not forget syphilis, Robert’s fate),
Brahms suffered for his art (like Beethoven,
Like even Tchaikovsky, so unhappy),
And he paid for his music with all his gifts,
Nothing held back, growl however he must.
Who so giftless could care about envy?

Tchaikovsky, on Brahms

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