THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS

Mæcenas, I propose to fly

To realms beyond these human portals;

No common things shall be my wings,

But such as sprout upon immortals.

Of lowly birth, once shed of earth,

Your Horace, precious ( so you've told him ),

Shall soar away; no tomb of clay

Nor Stygian prison-house shall hold him.

Upon my skin feathers begin

To warn the songster of his fleeting;

But never mind, I leave behind

Songs all the world shall keep repeating.

Lo! Boston girls, with corkscrew curls,

And husky westerns, wild and woolly,

And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes,

And all profess to know me fully.

Methinks the West shall know me best,

And therefore hold my memory dearer;

For by that lake a bard shall make

My subtle, hidden meanings clearer.

So cherished, I shall never die;

Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises,

Your elegies, and plaintive cries,

For I shall fertilize no daisies!