The Things I Write

The maid I meet upon the street,

     The little, laughing, tripping sprite,

All curls, and furs, and saucy smiles,

     She doesn’t read the things I write.

The man begrimed by labor’s dust,

     Who reaches home so late at night,

Who’s proud to “earn whate’er he can,”

     He doesn’t read the things I write.

The man of wealth who whirls apast,

     With prancing steed or auto light,

Who buys his books by tens and scores,

     He doesn’t read the things I write.

Who is it then who reads my lines,

     My prose and verse so very bright?

The hard-worked editor, alas!

     ‘Tis he alone, reads what I write.

Dec. 30, 1900