Page 54 - Poetry-Books

Ballade of Rejected MS

I’ve “submitted” my verse and my prose
To the editors’ “reading machines,”
Yet my name’s unfamiliar to those
Who subscribe for the best magazines.
I began to write verse in my teens,
By the light of sweet Erato’s face;—
Now, what is it the editor means
By, “We’re sorry we haven’t the space”?

Here are madrigals written to Rose—
‘T is to Rose that my preference leans;
Here are triolets, rondels, rondeaux,
And the charms they portray our Fifines;
Here’s “A Plea for our Gallant Marines”—
‘T was the Admiral “stated the case”;
Pray, what is it the editor means
By, “We’re sorry we haven’t the space”?

Here are tales quite as ghastly as Poe’s,
And weird legends;—the “limit” still screens
All I fain to the world would disclose,
So I clasp my portfolio’s shagreens:
But just here a grim thought supervenes—
Does my “style” lack acceptable grace?
And is that what the editor means
By, “We’re sorry we haven’t the space”?

ENVOY.
Friend,—for you’re at the back of the scenes,
Does my Pegasus halt in his pace?
Can you tell what the editor means
By, “We’re sorry we haven’t the space”?

— Andrew Hussey Allen (Century Magazine, 1888)

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