Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak

Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I’ve dreamed

For many a weary year, came back to me last week.

The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between

My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;

Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen

My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.

That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,

And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame

The name of him I’d cursed was writ; and when I cried,

“What portent this?” the rare celestial dame

Replied:

“Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou’st cursed.

The very man of all men who should be the first

Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he

Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee—

A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,

Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.

Read thou thy lines again!”

Ah! bitter was the cup.

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