Verse > Anthologies > Fuess and Stearns, eds. > The Little Book of Society Verse
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Fuess and Stearns, comps.  The Little Book of Society Verse.  1922.
 
To Correspondents
By Andrew Lang
 
MY Postman, though I fear thy tread,
  And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
’T is not the Christmas Dun I dread,
  My mortal foe is much severer,—
The Unknown Correspondent, who,        5
  With indefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
  Perplexes literary men.
 
From Pentecost and Ponder’s End
  They write; from Deal and from Dacotah,        10
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        15
  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.        20
“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,        25
  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,        30
And leave me to my dusty lore,
  And my unprofitable labours.
 
 
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