Remind me I can make

     my

    books sublime.

    But, prithee, bay my brow while I am here:

    Why do we ever wait for Death and Time?

    Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings,

    As I beat mine, for the occasion near.

    He knew, as I, the worth of present things:

    Great literature is with us year on year.

    Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear

    And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime

    With mine: "Why do we at the present fleer?

    Why do we ever wait for Death and Time?"

    The reading world with acclamation rings

    For my last book. It led the list at Weir,

    Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs:

    Great literature is with us year on year.

    "The Bookman" gives me a vociferous cheer.

    Howells approves. I can no higher climb.

    Bring, then, the laurel: crown my bright career—

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