I.
A certain dismal desk I own comprises
A literary morgue, a place of tears,
Where manuscripts of divers shapes and sizes
Repose—defiled with dust and canine ears.
They lie, awaiting ultimate cremation,
My slighted bantlings—poor, ill-treated pets!
Embodiments of blighted aspiration
And bitter editorial regrets!
I.
A certain dismal desk I own comprises
A literary morgue, a place of tears,
Where manuscripts of divers shapes and sizes
Repose—defiled with dust and canine ears.
They lie, awaiting ultimate cremation,
My slighted bantlings—poor, ill-treated pets!
Embodiments of blighted aspiration
And bitter editorial regrets!
II.
Which tale, which play, which poem is the poorest,
Where all have often been condemned as poor,
Which manuscript the most case-hardened tourist,
Where all have been on many a fruitless tour,
I cannot tell. Yet am I fain to wager
That none have been the cause of so much ire
As this—the stoutest, inkiest old stager,
That, in my heart of hearts, I still admire!
III.
The epics that, by some elusive magic,
Were turned at last to musical burlesques,
The comedies that daily grew more tragic
(Foredoomed to moulder in sepulchral skies);
The bright libretto, worthy of a Gilbert,
That shrunk into one lyric, which describes
What passed between the “Earwig and the Filbert”—
These and their like I treasure up in tribes!
IV.