Lines a la Swinburne.
I sing of the months of the whirligig years that are fading far out of sight and of sound and of motionless mind;
Of the days without dreams and the dreams without days, and the days and the dreams and the dreams and the days grown silent and blind;
Gone mad with the vigor of spring and the blush of the radish new blown in the meadows far kissed by the lips of the Sound:
The maddest and gladdest and saddest and baddest and sweetest, completest and fleetest and neatest of days ever found.
I sing of them often in words that are winding, in adjectives blinding, in dactyles and trochees with cunning combined,
In lines that are long as a sentence of Evarts, in lines on the plan of the Washington Monument deftly designed;
With wildering fancy of words and of musical syllables weighted with little of thought and with much less of rhyme,
I cover ten pages a sitting with verse that has value in market, and readily getteth there every time.