Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings, As I beat mine, for the occasion near. He knew, as I, the worth of present things: Great literature is with us year on year. Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime With mine: "Why do we at the present fleer? Why do we ever wait for Death and Time?" The reading world with acclamation rings For my last book. It led the list at Weir, Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs: Great literature is with us year on year. "The Bookman" gives me a vociferous cheer. Howells approves. I can no higher climb. Bring, then, the laurel: crown my bright career-- Why do we ever wait for Death and Time? Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer, Great literature is with us year on year. Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime: Why do we ever wait for Death and Time? WINTER JOYS BY EUGENE FIELD A man stood on the bathroom floor, While raged the storm without, One hand was on the water valve, The other on the spout. He fiercely tried to turn the plug, But all in vain he tried, "I see it all, I am betrayed, The water's froze," he cried. Down to the kitchen then he rushed, And in the basement dove, Long strived he for to turn the plugs, But all in vain he strove. "The hydrant may be running yet," He cried in hopeful tone, Alas, the hydrant too, was froze, As stiff as any stone. There came a burst, the water pipes And plugs, oh, where were they? Ask of the soulless plumber man Who called around next day. THE DEMON OF THE STUDY BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, And eats his meat and drinks his ale, And beats the maid with her unused broom, And the lazy lout with his idle flail; But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn, And hies him away ere the break of dawn. The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, And the devil of Martin Luther sat By the stout monk's side in social chat. The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him Who seven times crossed the deep, Twined closely each lean and withered limb, Like the nightmare in one's sleep. But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast The evil weight from his back at last. But the demon that cometh day by day To my quiet room and fireside nook, Where the casement light falls dim and gray On faded painting and ancient book, Is a sorrier one than any whose names Are chronicled well by good King James. No bearer of burdens like Caliban, No runner of errands like Ariel, He comes in the shape of a fat old man, Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell; And whence he comes, or whither he goes, I know as I do of the wind which blows.