Page 60 - Poetry-Books

A Complaint

I’ve written many a thrilling tale
Which cruel editors reject;
My talents are of no avail,
I cannot write in dialect.

I polish up my verse and try
Each rhyme, each rhythm to perfect;
Alas! ‘t is all in vain, and why?
It is not done in dialect.

My teachers when I was a child
My education did neglect,
Their English pure and undefiled
Had not a trace of dialect.

I learned by Worcester’s rules to speak,
And Lindley Murray to respect;
They taught me Hebrew, Latin, Greek,
But never thought of dialect.

Aspiring authors, hear my wail,
Success in letters don’t expect,
Your finest efforts all will fail
Unless you know a dialect.

— Louisa Trumbull Cogswell (Century Magazine, 1891)

My Blotter and I

This poor old blotter, ink-dried and torn,
A world of worry with me has borne.
What laughter has soaked it through and through,
When my pen has joked, as pens will do;
What heights have I climbed in fancy pure;
What had my heroines to endure
Of woe, when trials we piled so high,
Pitilessly, my blotter and I.

~ 58 ~