  O my Author, do you hear the Autumn calling? Does its message fail to reach you in your den, Where the ink that once so sluggishly was crawling Courses swiftly through your stylographic pen? 'Tis the season when the editor grows active, When the office-boy looks longingly to you. Won't you give him something novel and attractive To review? Never mind if you are frivolous or solemn, If you only can be striking and unique, The reviewers will concede you half a column In their literary journals, any week. And 'twill always be your publisher's ambition To provide for the demand that you create, And dispose of a gigantic first edition, While you wait. O my Author, can't you pull yourself together, Try to expiate the failures of the past, And just ask yourself dispassionately whether You can't give us something better than your last? If you really—if you truly—are a poet, As you fancy—pray forgive my being terse— Don't you think you might occasionally show it In your verse? |
|
