TO A WOULD-BE AUTHORESS.
Though, Maud, I respect your ambition,
I fear, to be brutally plain,
No proud and exalted position
Your stories are likely to gain;
And, frankly, I cannot pretend I
Regard with the smallest delight
The vile cacoëthes scribendi
Which led you to write.
Your talk is most charming, I know it,
You readily fascinate all,
But yet as a serious poet
Your worth, I'm afraid, is but small;
Your features, though well-nigh perfection,
Of the obstacle hardly dispose
That you haven't the faintest conception
Of how to write prose!
You think it would be so delightful
To see your productions in print?
Well, do not consider me spiteful
For daring discreetly to hint
That in this too-crowded profession,
Where prizes are fewer than blanks,
You'll find the laconic expression,
"Rejected—with thanks."
And so, since you do me the pleasure
To ask for my candid advice,
Allow for your moments of leisure
Some other pursuit to suffice;
And, if you would really befriend me,
One wish I will humbly confess,—
Oh, do not continue to send me
Those reams of MS.!