Classic Poem

( CAUSED BY FAILURE TO DIGEST A BLANKET-SHEET )

Did I dream? Was 't a fancy
Of weird necromancy
That mingled the living with shades of the dead?
Was 't a deep meditation,
Or hallucination
Provoked by a paper I had but just read?

Blanket-sheet editor
Sat in his den,
With his yardstick and tape-measure,
Paste-pot and pen,
When there came to the doorway
And stood in a row

The spirits of Shakspere
Of Addison, Poe,
And a multitude more
Of the same brainy school;
And one in clown's raiment
A poor verbose fool.

" So you 're looking for places? "
The editor said.
Each shade in his turn
Gave a nod of the head.
" How much can you write
In the course of a day? "
The spirits proceeded
Their work to display.

One had written a sonnet
Of usual length;
Another a paragraph
Towering in strength;
Still another romanced
In sensational strain —
Every thought a rare gem
From a procreant brain.

Then forth from his bag
The poor, motley clown brought
A haymow of words
With a needle of thought;
And the editor measured
Them all with his rule,
And dismissed every spirit
Save that of the fool.