Thus, finding his renown was fading,
Melville sped his downhill slide,
Writing only bills of lading
And drove his son to suicide.
If Keats thought he could carry on
Like Milton, hubris was his sin:
His book about Hyperion
Went straight to the remainder bin.
Of Dodgson's dodgy tastes, the truth
Is something we can only guess:
He posed that uncorrupted youth
In wanton stages of undress;
While Dickinson, averse to fun,
Would hardly ever leave her room;
And even Hawthorne's friends would shun
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Winter Returns With a Vengeance