ISSUE: Spring 1953
Gone the promise, pains, and care—
All I’d seemed to squander here!
Now I read what then I writ
Even sense has forsaken it.
Whither must my heart have flown,
Leaving head to drudge alone?
Whither can my wits have strayed
To let such lifeless things be said?
Oh, what mischief pen can make,
Scribbling on for scribbling’s sake!
How such vanity condone—
Peacock shimmering in the sun!—
The Muse (if ever present) gone!
