Cobwebs from a Library Corner

Of Keats and Washington,
Gérôme and blest Omar Khayyám,
And R. L. Stevenson;

Of Kipling and the Bard of Thrums,
And Bonaparte the great —
If I were these, I’d snap my thumbs
Derisively at Fate.

A COMMON FAVORITE

Charles Lamb is good, and so is Thackeray,
And so’s Jane Austen in her pretty way;
Charles Dickens, too, has pleased me quite a lot,
As also have both Stevenson and Scott.
I like Dumas and Balzac, and I think
Lord Byron quite a dab at spreading ink;
But on the whole, at home, across the sea,
The author I like best is Mr. Me.

A “first” of Elia filled my soul with joy.
A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.
And when I found Pendennis in the parts
A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.
A richly pictured set of Avon’s bard
Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;
But none brought out that cloying sense of glee
That came from that first book by Mr. Me.

And so I beg you join me in the toast
To him that I confess I love the most.
He does not always do his level best,
But no one lives who can survive that test.
His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,
And some aver ’tis but a passing fad;
But I don’t care, the fact remains that he
Has won my admiration – dear old Me.

THEIR PENS

The poet pens his odes and sonnets spruce
With quills plucked from the ordinary goose,
While critics write their sharp incisive lines
With quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.

AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM

If Bacon wrote those grand inspiring lines
At which alternately man weeps and laughs,
Who was it penned those chirographic vines
We know these times as Shakespeare’s autographs?

THE BIBLIOPHILE’S THREAT

If some one does not speedily indite
A volume that is worthy of my shelf,
I’ll have to buy materials and write
A novel and some poetry myself.

MY TREASURES

My library o’erflows with treasures rare:
Of “Dickens’ firsts,” a full, unbroken set;
And in a little nooklet off the stair
The whole edition of my novelette.

A POET’S FAD

He writes bad verse on principle,
E’en though it does not sell.
He thinks the plan original —
So many folk write well.

THE POET UNDONE

He was a poet born, but unkind Fate
Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
Whereon he left the poet-born’s estate
And wrote like one who’d happened to be made.

A WANING MUSE

“Why art thou sad, Poeticus?” said I.
So blue was he I feared he would not speak.
“Alas! I’ve lost my grip,” was his reply —
“I’ve writ but forty poems, sir, this week.”

MODESTY

“What hundred books are best, think you?” I said,
Addressing one devoted to the pen.
He thought a moment, then he raised his head:
“I hardly know – I’ve written only ten.”

MY LORD THE BOOK

A book is an aristocrat:
’Tis pampered – lives in state;
Stands on a shelf, with naught whereat
To worry – lovely fate!