My columns are ranged and steady,
Upbearing, though sad forespent,
The newspaper pediment,
And my review is ready.
Now for a week, poetaster,
My door is bolted. Away,
Thou still-born masterpiece,--aye,
Till Monday I am my master.
No melodrama shall whiten
My labour with threadbare leaves.
The warp that my fancy weaves
With silken flowers shall brighten.
Brief moment my spirit's warder,
Ye voices of soul that float,
I'll hearken your sorrow's note,
Nor verses evoke to order.
Then deep in my glass regaining
The health of a day gone by,--
Old visions for company--
The bloom of my vintage draining,
The wine of my thought I'll measure,
Wine virgin of alien glow,
Grapes trodden by life, that flow
From my heart at my heart's own pleasure!