copies of verse which seemed to me scarce worth keeping; and I have
recovered for it certain others from those publications which had
made room for them. I have corrected where I could, added such
dates as I might, and, by re-arrangement and revision, done my best
to give my book, such as it is, its final form. If any be
displeased by the result, I can but submit that my verses are my
own, and that this is how I would have them read.

The work of revision has reminded me that, small as is this book of
mine, it is all in the matter of verse that I have to show for the
years between 1872 and 1897. A principal reason is that, after
spending the better part of my life in the pursuit of poetry, I
found myself (about 1877) so utterly unmarketable that I had to own
myself beaten in art, and to addict myself to journalism for the
next ten years. Came the production by my old friend, Mr. H. B.
Donkin, in his little collection of 'Voluntaries' (1888), compiled
for that East-End Hospital to which he has devoted so much time and
energy and skill, of those unrhyming rhythms in which I had tried to
quintessentialize, as (I believe) one scarce can do in rhyme, my
impressions of the Old Edinburgh Infirmary. They had long since
been rejected by every editor of standing in London--I had well-nigh
said in the world; but as soon as Mr. Nutt had read them, he
entreated me to look for more. I did as I was told; old dusty
sheaves were dragged to light; the work of selection and correction
was begun; I burned much; I found that, after all, the lyrical
instinct had slept--not died; I ventured (in brief) 'A Book of
Verses.' It was received with so much interest that I took heart
once more, and wrote the numbers presently reprinted from 'The
National Observer' in the collection first (1892) called 'The Song
of the Sword' and afterwards (1893), 'London voluntaries.' If I