In these days, every mother's son or daughter,
Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer,
Although, unink'd, the paper would be whiter,
And worth, per ream, a hare, when you have caught her.
Hundreds of unstaunch'd Shelleys daily water
Unanswering dust; a thousand Wordsworth's scribble;
And twice a thousand Cornlaw Rhymers dribble
Rhym'd prose, unread. Hymners of fraud and slaughter,
By cant call'd other names, alone find buyers—
Who buy, but read not. “What a loss in paper,”
Groans each immortal of the host of sighers!
“What profanation of the midnight taper
In expirations vile! But I write well,
And wisely print. Why don't my poems sell?”