Page 48 - Poetry-Books

For, ah! we know
A poet’s curse, a grewsome thing it is,
And mickle is the power for weal or woe
In words of his.

O ye who sit
In calm, superior judgment on our verse,
Read this strange tale, ‘twere well to ponder it:
Suppose we curse!
— Robertson Trowbridge (Century Magazine, 1885)

The Truth About It

“Spring,” sang the poet, “budding Spring.”
Alas! the boughs were bare;
He was himself the one green thing,
For ice lay everywhere.

“Hail, Spring, with breezes soft and sweet.”
The Spring returned his hail;
There came a shower of snow and sleet
Upon a wintry gale.

“Sing, merry birds, in bush and tree.”
He read the almanac;
The birds were wiser far than he,
And did not hurry back.

“Spring, gentle”—here he ceased to sing.
Let the sad truth be told:
The while he sang of balmy Spring,
He caught an awful cold.

— Mrs. M.P. Handy (Century Magazine, 1886)

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