SECRETARY

I OUGHT not to have died and come here —
I was young and strong until they made me Secretary —
Secretary of the Poetry Society. —
It was not the work that killed me —
No, it was trying to be fair —
Fair about those unpublished poems.
When Miles Dawson and Arthur Guiterman and Corinne Roosevelt Robinson and Dr. Smith
Would get up and talk about " convincing " and " not convincing "
And say the poems " left them cold " and " really were not poems at all, "
I could see spasms of rage
Chase over the faces of the authors,
Poor authors, unwitting attendants
At their own " marche funebre. "
And then, within me, would overflow
The soft and soothing milk of human kindness
And all my veins would fill with a gentle anaemia
Of desire to be fair to all present,
And I, too, would rise, and say
That " I had not thought much of the poem they were discussing —
Till I came to the last line, and then I did think
There was punch in the last line, real punch " —
Well, later, I became more anaemic and died and came here.
I have never been quite sure if I died of anaemia or punch —
I mean the punch we all used to drink at the Poetry Society —
But that was not real punch!