Page 67 - Poetry-Books

Allegretto.

But hist! What sound is that I seem to hear?
The postman’s whistle breaks upon my ear.
A missive from my publisher he brings
In confirmation of my dream—he flings
It through the open door.
Be quick to ope
O trusty paper-knife, this envelope.

Allegro.

Egad, it must be true; a check falls out,
And here’s a statement of the sales, no doubt.

Crescendo Appassionato Presto.

Let’s see: one thousand copies printed, two
Hundred and sixty-seven for review,
And still on hand when this year was begun
Ye Gods! no less than seven thirty-one.
“Inclosed find twenty cents in royalty—
Two copies sold!” Scott! They were bought by me!

Doloroso.

Roll on, drear world, nor stop to think of me.
I go to-day across the salt, salt sea.
I’ll head for Russia, where, the Czar defied,
I’ll save myself th’ expense of suicide.

— John Kendrick Bangs (Century Magazine, 1892)

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