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Poem	"Alas! my songs have ceased to sell," Bemoaned a brother bard; To me his words were like a knell, Inexorably hard. For well I know the day is nigh When time will toll the bell, And people will no longer buy The songs I have to sell. To barter books for bread, thought I, I have no pressing need; I do do not care if folks will buy, So long as they will read. No more, I said, I'll flash my head With dollars or with pence; But I would go before I know Mankind's indifference. For O I've loved my puny pen Beyond all human tie! My life I give to it and when It fails me I will die. So like a child, each precious night, Indulgence I implore; Praying: "Oh God! please let me write Just one book more."
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