Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
William Canton b. 1845A New Poet
I
And scribbles, too, in hushed delight;
He dips his pen in charméd air:
What is it he pretends to write?
No clue to aught he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives
The poems that he cannot pen.
What grave, sweet looks! What earnest eyes!
He stops—reflects—and now again
His unrecording pen he plies.
These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh tricksy elf,
Wouldst drive thy father to despair?
Persists in hoping,—schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind
Some memory of our little lives.
Smiling the naked hunter lay,
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,
The urus which he made his prey.
May keep my name a little while,—
O child, who knows how many times
We two have made the angels smile!