In this age of rondeaus and other feats in rhyme, it is pleasant
to meet with a little book that abhors all verse tricks of the
fin-de-siècle poets, and judiciously follows the old masters. Such
a little book peeps at me from a corner in my library, marked in
capitals, “Poems Worth Reading.” It was given to me years ago by its
author, and as a remembrance, a few lines from the poem that appealed
most to my intellect in those days, was written on its fly-leaf. It was
its author’s first book, and was put forth with that shrinking modesty
that has heralded all meritorious work. Of preface, that relic of
egotism, there was none.