Ah, I can't understand it--but, O, I imagine it strikes me as nice.
There's a deity shapes us our ends, sir, rough-hew them, my boy, how
we will--
As I stated myself in a poem I published last year, you know, Bill--
Where I mentioned that that was the question--to be, or, by Jove, not
to be.
Ah, it's something--you'll think so hereafter--to wait on a poet like me.
Had I written no more than those verses on that Countess I used to
call Pussy--
Yes, Minette or Manon--and--you'll hardly believe it--she said they
were all out of Musset.
Now I don't say they weren't--but what then? and I don't say they
were--I'll bet pounds against pennies on
The subject--I wish I may never die Laureate, if some of them weren't
out of Tennyson.
And I think--I don't like to be certain, with Death, so to speak, by
me, frowning--
But I think there were some--say a dozen, perhaps, or a score--out of
Browning.
And--though God knows his poems are not (as all mine are, sir) perfumed
with orris--
Or at least with patchouli--I wouldn't be sworn there were none out of
Morris.
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