Classic Poem

Your empty page! “A verse, a skit,
A tuneful trifle, deftly writ;”—
I feel as one who writhes with gout
The morrow of a drinking-bout:
When reason reels, and senses flit

O for a shaft of Sydney's wit,
Or Jerrold's gibe, that burned and bit:—
Though no uncourtly line must flout
Your empty page.

“Poeta nascitur, non fit:”
(A trite quotation, I admit)
Its bearing plain,—“Why single out
Prosaic folks—?”—Hurrah! a shout
Of triumph!—“Why?”—I've covered it—
Your empty page!