ONE evening while reclining In my easy-chair, repining O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common sense, A solemn visaged lady, Who was surely on the shady Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence: "I sent a poem here, sir," Said the lady, growing fiercer, "And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring'; But, although I've scanned your paper, Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper, I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing." She was muscular and wiry, And her temper sure was fiery, And I knew to pacify her I would have to -- fib like fun. So I told her ere her verses, Which were great, had come to -- bless us, We'd received just sixty-one on "Spring," of which we'd printed one. And I added, "We've decided That they'd better be divided Among the years that follow -- one to each succeeding Spring. So your work, I'm pleased to mention, Will receive our best attention In the year of nineteen-forty, when the birds begin to sing." |