The poem
I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would chime So bell-like I could scarce believe; My rhymes rippled like a brook, My stanzas bloomed like blossoms gay: And that is why I dream this book A verseman's holiday.
The palm-blades brindle in the blaze Of sunsets splendouring the sea; The Gloaming is a lilac haze That impish stars stab eagerly. . . . O Land of Song! Oh golden clime! O happy me, whose work is play! Please take this tribute of my rhymes: A verseman's holiday.