s
The spirit of the bard:
God pity him who tushes--
His task is very hard.

The filthy gutter slushes,
The clouds are full of rain,
But doomed is he who tushes
To tush and tush again.

At morn with his hair-br_u_shes,
Still "tush" he says, and weeps;
At night again he tushes,
And tushes till he sleeps.

And when at length he pushes
Beyond the river dark--
'Las, to the man who tushes,
"Tush," shall be God's remark!

TO SIDNEY COLVIN

[_Chalet la Solitude, Hyeres, May 1883._]

COLVIN,--The attempt to correspond with you is vain. Well, well, then so
be it. I will from time to time write you an insulting letter, brief but
monstrous harsh. I regard you in the light of a genteel impostor. Your
name figures in the papers but never to a piece of letter-paper: well,
well.

News. I am well: Fanny been ill but better: _Otto_ about three-quarters
done; _Silverado_ proofs a terrible job--it is a most unequal work--new
wine in old bottles--large rats, small bottles:[5] as usual,
penniless--O but penniless: still, with four articles in hand (say L35)
and the L100 for _Silverado_ imminent, not hopeless.

Why am I so penniless, ever, ever penniless, ever, ever
penny-penny-penniless and dry?

The birds upon the thorn,
The poppies in the corn,
They surely are more fortunate or prudenter than I!

In Arabia, everybody is called the Father of something or other for
convenience or insult's sake. Thus you are "the Father of Prints," or of
"Bummkopferies," or "Father of Unanswered Correspondence." They would
instantly dub Henley "the Father of Wooden Legs"; me they would
denominate the "Father of Bones," and Matthew Arnold "the Father of
Eyeglasses."

I have accepted most of the excisions. Proposed titles:--

The Innocent Muse.
A Child's Garden of Rhymes.
Songs of the Playroom.
Nursery Songs.

I like the first?

R. L. S.

TO W. E. HENLEY

_La Solitude, Hyeres, May or June 1883._

DEAR LAD,--Snatches in return for yours; for this little once, I'm well
to windward of you.

Seventeen chapters of _Otto_ are now drafted, and finding I was working
through my voice and getting screechy, I have turned back again to
rewrite the earlier part. It has, I do believe, some merit: of what
order, of course, I am the last to know; and, triumph of triumphs, my
wife--my wife who hates and loathes and sla