I know your ghost draws well, HENRY, but don't be in a fright,
My forte isn't stage-effect: when I write plays, I write.
You'll have five pages at a time,—as much as you can say;
But a Poet is writing your play, HENRY, a Poet is writing your play.
Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes;
That if I must descend I might stop short at magazines.
But as Queen Mary from the doors the money turned away,
You must long for another big play, HENRY, you must long for another big play.
For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,—
The latest, culture;—and for that, my name doth current pass.