Classic Poem

(Acrostic)

Reader , I've heard my brother bards complain:
" Oh, that my publisher had writ a book!
By that sign were he human — not mere name
Ennobling many a trivial volume's look;
Richly endowed with genius to evade
The psychologic moment of success;
Unknowing his is but a gambler's trade
Joined to an angel's vision, more or less. "

Oh, happier fate is mine, for my last days
Have found the ideal vender of my verse —
No fulsome boomster, but with modest praise
Saving my face and taking off the curse
Of flattery, and caring not for pelf.
Need I reveal this paragon? 'Tis myself!