There’s many of
our magazines, and papers not a few, who will not buy my poetry, no matter what
I do; I can’t sell them a line of verse, no matter what I write, a ballad in
bad dialect, or dashing classic quite. And so to buy my daily bread, some
tricks I have to play, and send my poems out as prose, like this I send today.
And when I send them out this way I fool them every time, because they think
they’re printing prose instead of printing rhyme.
Nov.
24, 1901
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