Oh, the poet of the future. Will he come to us as comes

The beauty of the bugle\'s voice above the roar of drums—

The beauty of the bugle\'s voice above the roar and din

Of battle drums that pulse the time the victor marches in?

—James Whitcomb Riley.

"Oh, the poet of the future!" Can anybody guess

Whether he\'ll sound his bugle, or she\'ll wear them on her dress;

An\' will they kinder get their themes from nature, second hand,

An\' dish \'em up in language that plain folks can\'t understand?

There\'s a sight of this \'ere po\'try stuff, each year, that goes to waste,

Jest a-waitin\' fer a poet who has the time and taste

To tackle it just as it is, an\' weave it into rhyme,

With warp and woof of hope and love, in life\'s swift loom of time.

An\' mebbe the future poet, if he understands the thing,

Won\'t start the summer katydids to singin\' in the spring,

Jest like the croakin\' frog; but let the critter wait at most,

To announce to timid farmers that "it\'s jest six weeks till frost."

The katydid and goldenrod are partners in this way:

They sing and bloom where\'er there\'s room, along life\'s sunny way;

So I warn you, future poet, jest let \'em bloom an\' lilt

Together—don\'t divorce \'em. That\'s jest the way they\'re built.

In order to be perfect, the future poet should

Know every sound of nature, of river, lake an\' wood,

Should know each whispered note and every answerin\' call—

He should never set cock-pheasants to drummin\' in the fall.

"Under the golden maples!" Not havin\' voice to sing

They flap their love out on a log quite early in the spring;

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