Ebenezer Elliott - In these days . . .

Ebenezer Elliott - In these days . . .

In these days, every mother's son or daughter br Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer, br Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, br And worth, per ream, a hare, when you have caught her. br Hundreds of unstaunched Shelleys daily water br Unanswering dust; a thousand Wordsworths scribble; br And twice a thousand Corn Law Rhymers dribble br Rhymed prose, unread. Hymners of fraud and slaughter, br By cant called other names, alone find buyers - br Who buy, but read not. 'What a loss in paper,' br Groans each immortal of the host of sighers! br 'What profanation of the midnight taper br In expirations vile! But I write well, br And wisely print.


User: PoemHunter.com

Views: 54

Uploaded: 2014-11-10

Duration: 01:03

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