I
never yet have poetized
Upon the gentle spring;
Because
I know the editor
Likes not that sort of thing.
The
grasses green, the purling brooks
For him have not a charm;
He
has no use for buds that burst
Upon the wayside farm.
The
robin’s trill, the clucking hen,
The little lambs that bleat;
The
whippoorwills and katy-dids,
Awake no echoes sweet
Within
the soul of him who sits
Low in his office chair;
And
sends regrets to poets who
Are making him despair.
O
I could write a yard of verse
Upon the joys of spring;
Portray
the spryness of the sprout,
And all that sort of thing.
But
I refrain, I will not break,
My spring poetic vow;
As
I have said, I never have,
And I will not venture now.
Jan.
21, 1900
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