To My Readers

I do not boast a poet's bays,Nor claim to wield a poet's pen,Nor do I hope for many daysTo buzz about the mouths of men.

I claim to be the sort of manWho studies metrical effect:Whose verses generally scan:Whose rhymes are commonly correct;

And when I chance upon a thoughtWhich seems to shape itself in rhyme,I like to treat it as I ought,Unless the theme be too sublime.

It may be pleasure to rehearse,When twilight deepens out of day,The tinkle of a tiny verseWhich wiled the noon-tide hours away.

It may be pleasure to recallThe friends of yesterday to-morrowBut that's a pleasure—if at all—Which borders very near on sorrow.

So, if I try to make you laugh,Or if I chance to make you weep,Your comrade when you crunch and quaff,Your solace when you cannot sleep.

Its merely as a common manWho says what other people say,And hopes to end as he began,A treader of the beaten way.

June, 1891.