Poem: The Forlorn Author by Ambrose Gates

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I met a long, gaunt, shiv'ring being;
   So deep his woe, my heart's core bled;
   His feet's encasements' base had fled,
   Nor did his batter'd hat his head
Prevent the weeping cloud from seeing.

When sympathy on 's plight had touched,
   "I am an author, sir," he said,
   And aching were his eyes of lead;
   He heavily sigh'd and stayed his tread,
Then spake, and at his vitals clutched --

"Sweet youth was mine, and exultation
   That did unto my brian a seat
   Among immortals! yet meat
   Years past I've lack'd: all journals greet
My screed, but pay -- on publication!"

First published
in The Bulletin, 2 May 1903

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on March 17, 2012 11:39 AM.

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