Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed. The room does very well; I have to write Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away; Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room, Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down At once, as I must have them, to be sure, Whether I bid you never bring me such At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse. You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed, And dream, if possible, I am not cross. Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,— A mere, mere woman,—a mere flaccid nerve,— A kerchief left out all night in the rain, Turned soft so,—overtasked and overstrained And overlived in this close London life! And yet I should be stronger. Never burn Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare With red seals from the table, saying each, ‘Here’s something that you know not.’ Out alas, ’Tis scarcely that the world’s more good and wise Or even straighter and more consequent Since yesterday at this time—yet, again, If but one angel spoke from Ararat, I should be very sorry not to hear: So open all the letters! let me read. Blanche Ord, the writer in the ‘Lady’s Fan,’ Requests my judgment on ... that, afterwards. Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak, And signs, ‘Elisha to you.’ Pringle Sharpe Presents his work on ‘Social Conduct,’ ... craves A little money for his pressing debts ... From me, who scarce have money for my needs,— Art’s fiery chariot which we journey in Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes, Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward! Here’s Rudgely knows it,—editor and scribe— He’s ‘forced to marry where his heart is not, Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart.’ Ah,—— lost it because no one picked it up! That’s really loss! (and passable impudence.) My critic Hammond flatters prettily, And wants another volume like the last. My critic Belfair wants another book Entirely different, which will sell, (and live?) A striking book, yet not a startling book, The public blames originalities, (You must not pump spring-water unawares Upon a gracious public, full of nerves—) Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox, As easy reading as the dog-eared page That’s fingered by said public, fifty years, Since first taught spelling by its grandmother, And yet a revelation in some sort: That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So—what next? My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts; ‘Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,’ says he, ‘And do not prate so of humanities:’ Whereat I call my critic, simply Stokes. My critic Jobson recommends more mirth, Because a cheerful genius suits the times, And all true poets laugh unquenchably Like Shakspeare and the gods. That’s very hard.