The Spiteful Letter
1868
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Here, it is here, the close of the year,
   And with it a spiteful letter.
My name in song has done him much wrong,
   For himself has done much better.

5

O little bard, is your lot so hard,
   If men neglect your pages?
I think not much of yours or of mine,
   I hear the roll of the ages.

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!

10

   Are mine for the moment stronger?
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot;
   I last but a moment longer.

This faded leaf, our names are as brief;
   What room is left for a hater?

15

Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,
   For it hangs one moment later.

Greater than I­is that your cry?
   And men will live to see it.
Well­if it be so­so it is, you know;

20

   And if it be so, so be it.

Brief, brief is a summer leaf,
   But this is the time of hollies.
O hollies and ivies and evergreens,
   How I hate the spites and the follies!