If Longfellow were living in these hyphenated, free and versy days, he
would find himself compelled to take his pen in hand and dictate as
follows:

In life I was the village smith,
I worked all day
But
I retained the delicacy of my complexion
Because
I worked in the shade of the chestnut tree
Instead of in the sun
Like Nicholas Blodgett, the expressman.
I was large and strong
Because
I went in for physical culture
And deep breathing
And all those stunts.
I had the biggest biceps in Spoon River.

Who can say where this thing will end? _Vers libre_ is within the
reach of all. A sleeping nation has wakened to the realization that
there is money to be made out of chopping its prose into bits.
Something must be done shortly if the nation is to be saved from this
menace. But what? It is no good shooting Edgar Lee Masters, for the
mischief has been done, and even making an example of him could not
undo it. Probably the only hope lies in the fact that poets never buy
other poets' stuff. When once we have all become poets, the sale of
verse will cease or be limited to the few copies which individual
poets will buy to give to their friends.