"
"Don't what?" demanded the Minor Poet.
"Don't ridicule it--make fun of it, even though it may happen to be
your own. There are parts of it I know by heart. I say them over
to myself when-- Don't spoil it for me." The Old Maid laughed, but
nervously.
"My dear lady," reassured her the Minor Poet, "do not be afraid. No
one regards that poem with more reverence than do I. You can have
but small conception what a help it is to me also. I, too, so often
read it to myself; and when-- We understand. As one who turns his
back on scenes of riot to drink the moonlight in quiet ways, I go to
it for sweetness and for peace. So much do I admire the poem, I
naturally feel desire and curiosity to meet its author, to know him.
I should delight, drawing him aside from the crowded room, to grasp
him by the hand, to say to him: 'My dear--my very dear Mr. Minor
Poet, I am so glad to meet you! I would I could tell you how much
your beautiful work has helped me. This, my dear sir--this is
indeed privilege!' But I can picture so vividly the bored look with
which he would receive my gush.
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