To L.A. You are a poet. I my nose Grind at the humbler wheel of prose, But now and then I make a stanza ..... What's that you say? It does not scan, Sir? What then? I may be Sancho Panza, But let not you on Rosinante Despise my donkey's crude andante. Yours be the visions, yours the fame, I have my pleasure all the same; And though its not high poesy, Lascelles, is good enough for me.
The wind blows through the bamboo wood, The coloured lanterns swing and gleam, And sleeping Chinese children dream Of small Aladdin and his Djinns.
Sometimes, when poor, I almost wish I were kind of Chinese fish, For then I'd bring them up and live In all the wealth the Djinn could give.