10 P.M.—After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!
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10.30 P.M.—Two more lines screwed out. But what lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,—ha! ha!—catch me rhyming to-night!
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11 P.M.—Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to the wet towel. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.
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Midnight.—Done it! Labelled it Carmen Sæculare. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.
Punch. April 9, 1887.
Another Jubilee Ode.