Page 53 - Poetry-Books

They drove her blind by poking in
An i—a process new—
And now they’ve gouged it out again,
And made her crazy, too.

I’ll read no more. What shall I do?
I’ll never dare to send it.
The paper’s scattered far and wide,
‘Tis now too late to mend it.
Oh, fame! thou cheat of human life,
Why did I ever write!
I wish my poem had been burnt,
Before it saw the light.

Was ever such a horrid hash,
In poetry or prose?
I’ve said she was a “fiend!” and praised
The color of her “nose.”
I wish I had the printer here
About a half a minute,
I’d bang him to his heart’s content,
And with an h begin it.

— Oliver Wendell Holmes (Crown Jewels, 1887)

Hard to Suit

“I would not mind their coming back, you know,”
The lady said, the day her verses went.
“If only they’d refuse the lines on ‘Snow’
Before it’s time for ‘Roses’ to be sent.”

Upon the steps a postman’s eager tread;
Quick! take the envelope, serenely white:—
“Returned with thanks.”—And then the lady said,
“I think they might have kept it overnight.”

— A.W.R. (Century Magazine, 1887)

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