TO CORRESPONDENTS
MY postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread,
My mortal foe is much severer --
The unknown correspondent, who,
With indefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder's End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacota;
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for autographs; in vain --
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora;
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that they have met
This writer 'at a garden party,
And though' this writer 'may forget'
Their recollection 's keen and hearty;
'And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin.'
These letters from provincial blues
Assail us daily by the dozen.
O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!
MY postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread,
My mortal foe is much severer --
The unknown correspondent, who,
With indefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder's End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacota;
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for autographs; in vain --
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora;
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that they have met
This writer 'at a garden party,
And though' this writer 'may forget'
Their recollection 's keen and hearty;
'And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin.'
These letters from provincial blues
Assail us daily by the dozen.
O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!