THE INTROSPECTIVE BARD.
Persistent self-analysis,
Perfected more and more,
The mirror to my spirit is,
Which it performs before.
For "progress" let reformers pine,
Let merchants toil for pelf—
The study of a soul like mine
Is certainly Itself!
For girls who at my shrine will burn
An incense delicate,
I'll lightly probe the problems stern
Of Love, and Life, and Fate;
And as their darkness I disperse,
I mark with interest
The diverse chords that girls diverse
Awaken in my breast.
Not having known a broken heart,
Nor any scathing pain,
I can afford, in life and art,
The pessimistic vein.
In many a literary gem,
Polished with care supreme,
Mildly, but firmly, I condemn
So poor a mundane scheme.
And yet, a modest competence
My pensive mood provides,
My sentiments—like specimens
On microscopic slides—
When I on woven paper fair,
In woven words illume,
I make a kind of subtle, rare,
And Esoteric Boom!
Police Charge against Excited Throgmortonian Jobber.—"He jobbed me in the eye."
