ON THE PLATFORMWhen Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the humOf Mammon's distracting and wearisome strifeTo stand and deliver a lecture on "SomeConditions of Intellectual Life,"I cursed the offender who gave him the hallTo lecture on any conditions at all!But he rose with a fire divine in his eye,Haranguing with endless abundance of breath,Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high,And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death.And I thought in my dream: "These conditions, no doubt,Are bad for the life he was talking about."So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream):"Get off of the platform!—it isn't the kind!"But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam,And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind.And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced,That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!
When Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the humOf Mammon's distracting and wearisome strifeTo stand and deliver a lecture on "SomeConditions of Intellectual Life,"I cursed the offender who gave him the hallTo lecture on any conditions at all!But he rose with a fire divine in his eye,Haranguing with endless abundance of breath,Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high,And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death.And I thought in my dream: "These conditions, no doubt,Are bad for the life he was talking about."So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream):"Get off of the platform!—it isn't the kind!"But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam,And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind.And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced,That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!