Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
A New Poet
William Canton (b. 1845)
I WRITE. He sits beside my chair,
  And scribbles, too, in hushed delight;
He dips his pen in charméd air:
  What is it he pretends to write?
He toils and toils; the paper gives        5
  No clue to aught he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives
  The poems that he cannot pen.
Strange fancies throng that baby brain.
  What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!        10
He stops—reflects—and now again
  His unrecording pen he plies.
It seems a satire on myself,—
  These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf,        15
  Wouldst drive thy father to despair?
Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind
  Persists in hoping,—schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind
  Some memory of our little lives.        20
Beneath his rock i’ the early world
  Smiling the naked hunter lay,
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,
  The urus which he made his prey.
Like him I strive in hope my rhymes        25
  May keep my name a little while,—
O child, who knows how many times
  We two have made the angels smile!


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