The public has so long listened
to these funereal solos that if a few of the poets thus impatient to
be gone were to go, their departure would perhaps be attended by that
resigned speeding which the proverb invokes on behalf of the parting
guest.
The existence of at least one magazine editor would, I know, have a
shadow lifted from it. At this writing, in a small mortuary basket under
his desk are seven or eight poems of so gloomy a nature that he would
not be able to remain in the same room with them if he did not suspect
the integrity of their pessimism. The ring of a false coin is not more
recognizable than that of a rhyme setting forth a simulated sorrow.
The Miss Gladys who sends a poem entitled "Forsaken," in which she
addresses death as her only friend, makes pictures in the editor's eyes.
He sees, among other dissolving views, a little hoyden in magnificent
spirits, perhaps one of this season's social buds, with half a score of
lovers ready to pluck her from the family stem--a rose whose countless
petals are coupons.
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