قراءة كتاب The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
heed
As Frohman's Self should heed a Bowery Cast!
XLVIII
A Moment's Halt—Pray see this charming, chaste
Ladies' Home Journal—"On the New Shirt Waist"—
"Advice to Girls," and so forth—here is reach'd
The Nothing women yearn for, undebased!
XLIX
Would you a hurried Lunch Hour wish to spend
About THE SECRET—hearken to me, Friend!
The Editors themselves must guess their Way—
And on their Wives' and Sisters' Hints depend!
L
A Hair perhaps divides the Good from Bad;
And Bok himself a Lot of Trouble had
Before he found Stenographers were Wise—
Then, as they laughed or wept, his Soul was glad.
LI
The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines;
For her the Home-and-Mother Tale, and Scenes
Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End—
The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.
LII
The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as good as told,
Though Dialect and Local Color mould;
This Style will last throughout Eternity,
While Women buy our Books—if Books are sold.
LIII
But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot
Which these immortal Elements has not,
You gaze To-day upon a Slip, which reads:
"The Editor Regrets"—and such-like Rot.
LIV
Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use
That Subtle Touch which Editors refuse;
Better be jocund at two cents a word
Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!
LV
You know, my Friends, I've done with Purple Cows,
And long to sober Fiction paid my Vows;
Spontaneous Glee is mighty hard to Sell—
'Twas Carolyn Wells that shot across my Bows.
LVI
For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line,
As Nonsense modern Fiction I define;
But of the sort that one would care for, I
Can find but Little—and that Little's mine!
LVII
Ah, but this wholesale Satire, you may say,
Makes me pretend to be a Critic—Nay!
Rather be roasted than to roast, say I;
And I have been well roasted, by the way!
LVIII
And lately, in a Studio, a Miss
Sat smiling o'er a Book—and it was this:
"The Pipes of Pan"—she showed it me, and read,
Bidding me pay attention—it was Bliss!
LIX
Bliss Carman, who with genius absolute,
My poor satiric Logic can confute;
The only Poet who, in modern Days,
His Poems can to clinking Gold transmute!