I cannot sell a line of verse, tho’
why I cannot say. I send out poems every week, but back they come straightway.
I send them to the journals all and to the magazines, but back and back they
come each day – I don’t know what it means. I’ve sought each cruel editor to
learn the reason why, but they’re too busy killing time to furnish a reply. I
send them verse historical, and verse in classic strain; I send them ballads
dialect but all come back again. They buy my prose in goodly lots, and pay me
middling well, but poetry, good poetry, I cannot seem to sell. But I have hit
upon a scheme, by which I fool ‘em fine; I now send poems out as prose, and
sell them every line.
May
31, 1903
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