 | The Autumn Garden |  |
99
II. The Bob-Wheel
To the late W. C. M.
A bob-wheel Monkhouse bids me try,
Ten rhymes on two, besides the “bob”!
I hesitate, and start, and sigh:
The fear of failure makes me throb.
Can such a breathless bard as I
On these frail pinions heavenward fly?
Some dædal wizard let me rob!
Courage! the rhymes are gliding by;
'Tis almost done! See, knob by knob,
The bob-wheel turns!
Put something, Cosmo, in my fob,—
His wage the poet earns.
1880.
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