English poem
To Correspondents
by Andrew Lang
MY Postman, though I fear thy tread, And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, ’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, My mortal foe is much severer,— The Unknown Correspondent, who, With undefatigable pen, And nothing in the world to do, Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder’s End They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, The people of the Shetlands send No inconsiderable quota; They write for autographs; in vain, In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, They write that Allan Quatermain Is not at all the book for Brora.
They write to say that they have met This writer ‘at a garden party, And though’ this writer ‘may forget,’ Their recollection’s keen and hearty. ‘And will you praise in your reviews A novel by our distant cousin?’ These letters from Provincial Blues Assail us daily by the dozen!
O friends with time upon your hands, O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, O poets out of many lands, O youths and maidens under twenty, Seek out some other wretch to bore, Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, And leave me to my dusty lore And my unprofitable labours!