In these days . . .

In these days, every mother's son or daughter Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer, Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, And worth, per ream, a hare, when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstaunched Shelleys daily water Unanswering dust; a thousand Wordsworths scribble; And twice a thousand Corn Law Rhymers dribble Rhymed prose, unread. Hymners of fraud and slaughter, By cant called other names, alone find buyers -- Who buy, but read not. "What a loss in paper," Groans each immortal of the host of sighers! "What profanation of the midnight taper In expirations vile! But I write well, And wisely print. Why don't my poems sell?"