91
To My Readers.
I do not boast a poet's bays,Nor claim to wield a poet's pen,Nor do I hope for many daysTo buzz about the mouths of men.
I claim to be the sort of manWho studies metrical effect:Whose verses generally scan:Whose rhymes are commonly correct;
And when I chance upon a thoughtWhich seems to shape itself in rhyme,I like to treat it as I ought,Unless the theme be too sublime.
It may be pleasure to rehearse,When twilight deepens out of day,The tinkle of a tiny verseWhich wiled the noon-tide hours away.
It may be pleasure to recallThe friends of yesterday to-morrowBut that's a pleasure—if at all—Which borders very near on sorrow.
