THE MIGHTY PEN
Reading edition
["With this little instrument that rests so lightly in the hand, whole nations can be moved.... When it is poised between thumb and finger, it becomes a living thing—it moves with the pulsations of the living heart and thinking brain, and writes down, almost unconsciously, the thoughts that live—the words that burn.... It would be difficult to find a single newspaper or magazine to which we could turn for a lesson in pure and elegant English."—Miss Corelli in "Free Opinions Freely Expressed."]
O magic pen, what wonders lie Within your little length! Though small and paltry to the eye You boast a giant's strength. Between my finger and my thumb A living creature you become, And to the listening world you give "The words that burn—the thoughts that live." Oft, when the sacred fire glows hot, Your wizard power is proved: You write till lunch, and nations not Infrequently are moved; 'Twixt lunch and tea perhaps you damn For good and all, some social sham, And by the time I pause to sup— Behold Carnegie crumpled up!
Through your unconscious eyes I see Strange beauty, little pen! You make life exquisite to me, If not to other men. You fill me with an inward joy No outward trouble can destroy, Not even when I struggle through Some foolish ignorant review; Nor when the press bad grammar scrawls In wild uncultured haste, And which intolerably galls One's literary taste. What are the editors about, Whom one would think would edit out The shocking English and the style Which every page and line defile? There is, alas! no magazine, No paper that one knows To which a man could turn for clean And graceful English prose; Not even, O my pen, though you Yourself may write for one or two, And lend to them a style, a tone, A grammar that is all your own. I see the shadows of decay On all sides darkly loom; Massage and manicure hold sway, Cosmetics fairly boom; Old dowagers and budding maids Alike affect complexion-aids, While middle age with anxious care Dyes to restore its dwindling hair.
The time is out of joint, but still I am not hopeless quite So long as you exist, my quill, Once more to set it right. Woman will cease from rouge, I think, Man pour his hair-wash down the sink, If you will yet consent to give "The words that burn—the thoughts that live."