[In memory of the days when Summers were wet.]
Thrice happy fay, ah, would that men could model
Their lives on thine, most beautiful, most calm,
Melodious songster! List, how, while we swaddle
Our limbs in mackintoshes, thy clear psalm
Rises untroubled. Lo! low thou dost waddle
About in filthy pools and find them balm,
Insatiate of beastliness and muck,
Blithe spirit of our summer, hail, O duck!
There is no gleam of comfort in the heavens,
Now, while we sit with suppliant hands and groan,
Pavilion-bound the impotent elevens,
The farmer cursing at the tempest's moan,
But thou, O duck, O duck, of Mrs. Evans,
For ever singest in mellifluous tone,
The deluge pouring from thy rain-proof back,
Loud orisons of praise. Thou goest "Quack,"
And once more, "Quack," well knowing to recover
The first fine careless sound, egregious brute,
Out in the orchard yonder, where some lover
Maybe has wandered with goloshless boot
In other years, and plucked from boughs above her
(Matching his lady's cheek) the ripened fruit:
But now in vain they vaunt their crimson front,
One cannot pick them, not without a punt.
Ah, yes, thou singest on, thy voice assuages
(Or ought to) human plaints about the corn,
Perhaps the self-same voice that in past ages
Cheered the sick heart of HAM some early morn,
As he leaned out and cried, "The flood still rages,
The Ark is tossing in a sea forlorn,
But some live thing is happy; don't condemn
Our Eastern climate, JAPHET! Cheer up, SHEM!"
But I, when I observe no sunshine dapple
The leaden pall above, the rayless gloom,
And hear thee singing 'neath the pendant apple,
Although I praise thee, duck, I also fume,
I ask for vengeance, for the gods who grapple
With too much fortune, for the hand of doom;
I like to think that thou must end thy joys,
And stop that silly sort of rootling noise.
I lift my nose to catch the wafted savour
Of incense stealing from the onion-bed,
The perfume of the sage leaf. O, thou laver
In filthiness and slush, I want thee dead--
No more to gloat upon our grief, nor favour
The air with that wild music, but instead
With vermeil fruit, like those on yonder trees,
Garnished in dissolution. Also peas.
E. G. V. KNOX.
SEPT. 4, 1912.