We had a patron in the Woodson today who was doing research in the papers of Stockton Axson, who taught English at Rice from 1914 until his death in 1935. I have to confess that if I ever knew we had these papers, I’d forgotten it. When I opened the first folder, this jumped out:

Although I can’t be certain based on what’s here, I assume this is Axson’s composition. I don’t think it’s great poetry, although I’ve seen lots worse, and the change to the last line seems like a decided improvement. But you know what? I like it. And I absolutely recognize what he’s talking about. He got something very right.

Bonus: