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Ecce iterum Crispinus
AGAIN I hear that creaking step!— | |
| He’s rapping at the door!— | |
| Too well I know the boding sound | |
| That ushers in a bore. | |
| I do not tremble when I meet | 5 |
| The stoutest of my foes, | |
| But Heaven defend me from the friend | |
| Who comes—but never goes. | |
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| He drops into my easy-chair, | |
| And asks about the news; | 10 |
| He peers into my manuscript, | |
| And gives his candid views; | |
| He tells me where he likes the line, | |
| And where he’s forced to grieve; | |
| He takes the strangest liberties,— | 15 |
| But never takes his leave! | |
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| He reads my daily paper through | |
| Before I’ve seen a word; | |
| He scans the lyric (that I wrote) | |
| And thinks it quite absurd; | 20 |
| He calmly smokes my last cigar, | |
| And coolly asks for more; | |
| He opens everything he sees— | |
| Except the entry door! | |
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| He talks about his fragile health, | 25 |
| And tells me of the pains | |
| He suffers from a score of ills | |
| Of which he ne’er complains; | |
| And how he struggled once with death | |
| To keep the fiend at bay; | 30 |
| On themes like those away he goes,— | |
| But never goes away! | |
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| He tells me of the carping words | |
| Some shallow critic wrote; | |
| And every precious paragraph | 35 |
| Familiarly can quote; | |
| He thinks the writer did me wrong; | |
| He’d like to run him through! | |
| He says a thousand pleasant things,— | |
| But never says, “Adieu!” | 40 |
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| Whene’er he comes,—that dreadful man,— | |
| Disguise it as I may, | |
| I know that, like an Autumn rain, | |
| He’ll last throughout the day. | |
| In vain I speak of urgent tasks; | 45 |
| In vain I scowl and pout; | |
| A frown is no extinguisher.— | |
| It does not put him out! | |
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| I mean to take the knocker off, | |
| Put crape upon the door, | 50 |
| Or hint to John that I am gone | |
| To stay a month or more. | |
| I do not tremble when I meet | |
| The stoutest of my foes, | |
| But Heaven defend me from the friend | 55 |
| Who never, never goes! | |
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