Persistent self-analysis,
Perfected more and more,
The mirror to my spirit is,
Which it performs before.
For "progress" let reformers pine,
Let merchants toil for pelf--
The study of a soul like mine
Is certainly Itself!
For girls who at my shrine will burn
An incense delicate,
I'll lightly probe the problems stern
Of Love, and Life, and Fate;
And as their darkness I disperse,
I mark with interest
The diverse chords that girls diverse
Awaken in my breast.
Not having known a broken heart,
Nor any scathing pain,
I can afford, in life and art,
The pessimistic vein.
In many a literary gem,
Polished with care supreme,
Mildly, but firmly, I condemn
So poor a mundane scheme.
And yet, a modest competence
My pensive mood provides,
My sentiments--like specimens
On microscopic slides--
When I on woven paper fair,
In woven words illume,
I make a kind of subtle, rare,
And Esoteric Boom!
* * * * *
POLICE CHARGE AGAINST EXCITED THROGMORTONIAN JOBBER.--"He jobbed me in
the eye."
* * * * *
[Illustration: IN THE VESTRY.
_Minister_ (_who has exchanged pulpits--to Minister's Man_). "DO YOU
COME BACK FOR ME AFTER TAKING UP THE BOOKS?"
_Minister's Man._ "OU AY, SIR, I COMES BACK FOR YE, AND YE FOLLOWS ME AT
A RESPECTFUL DISTANCE!"]
* * * * *