And in a little nooklet off the stair

The whole edition of my novelette.

A POET’S FAD

He writes bad verse on principle,

He

E’en though it does not sell.

He thinks the plan original—

So many folk write well.

THE POET UNDONE

He was a poet born, but unkind Fate

He

Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,

Whereon he left the poet-born’s estate

And wrote like one who’d happened to be made.

A WANING MUSE

“Why art thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.

Why

So blue was he I feared he would not speak.

“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply—

“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”

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