TO CORRESPONDENTS - Isa Craig Knox Poems


Poems » isa craig knox » to correspondents


MY postman, though I fear thy tread,
    And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread,
    My mortal foe is much severer --
The unknown correspondent, who,
    With indefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
    Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder's End
    They write: from Deal, and from Dacota;
The people of the Shetlands send
    No inconsiderable quota;
They write for autographs; in vain --
    In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora;
They write that Allan Quatermain
    Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that they have met
    This writer 'at a garden party,
And though' this writer 'may forget'
    Their recollection 's keen and hearty;
'And will you praise in your reviews
    A novel by our distant cousin.'
These letters from provincial blues
    Assail us daily by the dozen.

O friends with time upon your hands,
    O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
    O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
    Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
    And my unprofitable labours!