In his chamber sits the poet—
Pale his face, his eye is dim;
See the table—gold o’erflows it—
Publishers have sent it him.
For a time no word he utters—
Fullest hearts the slowest speak—
But at length he feebly mutters,
“I’m astonished at my cheek!”
J. T. G.
The Weekly Dispatch. June 25, 1882.