_Portrait of the Artist_
Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.
Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,
With hempen cord go bind me,
And, of your mercy, leave me there,
Nor tell them where to find me.
Oh, lock the portal as you go,
And see its bolts be double....
Come back in half an hour or so,
And I will be in trouble.
_Chant for Dark Hours_
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Book shop.
(Lady, make your mind up, and wait your life away.)
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Crap game.
(He said he'd come at moonrise, and here's another day!)
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Bar-room.
(Wait about, and hang about, and that's the way it goes.)
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Woman.
(Heaven never send me another one of those!)
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Golf course.
(Read a book, and sew a seam, and slumber if you can.)
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Haberdasher's.
(All your life you wait around for some damn man!)
_Unfortunate Coincidence_
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying--
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
_Verse Reporting Late Arrival at a Conclusion_
Consider a lady gone reckless in love,
In novels and plays:
You watch her proceed in a drapery of
A roseate haze.
Acclaimed as a riot, a wow, and a scream,
She flies with her beau to les Alpes Maritimes,
And moves in a mist of a mutual dream
The rest of her days.
In life, if you'll listen to one who has been
Observant of such,
A lady in love is more frequently in
Decidedly Dutch.
The thorn, so to say, is revealed by the rose.
The best that she gets is a sock in the nose.
These authors and playwrights, I'm forced to suppose,
Don't get around much.
_Inventory_
Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.
Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.
Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.
_Now at Liberty_
Little white love, your way you've taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart's forsaken.
(Whom shall I get by telephone?)
Well do I know there's no returning;
Once you go out, it's done, it's done.
All of my days are gray with yearning.
(Nevertheless, a girl needs fun.)
Little white love, perplexed and weary,
Sadly your banner fluttered down.
Sullen the days, and dreary, dreary.
(Which of the boys is still in town?)
Radiant and sure, you came a-flying;
Puzzled, you left on lagging feet.
Slow in my breast, my heart is dying.
(Nevertheless, a girl must eat.)
Little white love, I hailed you gladly;
Now I must wave you out of sight.
Ah, but you used me badly, badly.
(Who'd like to take me out to-night?)
All of the blundering words I've spoken,
Little white love, forgive, forgive.
Once you went out, my heart fell, broken.
(Nevertheless, a girl must live.)
_Comment_
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.
_Plea_
Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart;
You'd have me know of you your least transgression
And so the intimate places of your heart,
Kneeling, you bared to me, as in confession.
Softly you told of loves that went before,--
Of clinging arms, of kisses gladly given;
Luxuriously clean of heart once more,
You rose up, then, and stood before me, shriven.
When this, my day of happiness, is through,
And love, that bloomed so fair, turns brown and brittle,
There is a thing that I shall ask of you--
I, who have given so much, and asked so little.
Some day, when there's another in my stead;
Again you'll feel the need of absolution,
And you will go to her, and bow your head,
And offer her your past, as contribution.
When with your list of loves you overcome her,
For Heaven's sake, keep this one secret from her!
_Pattern_
Leave me to my lonely pillow.
Go, and take your silly posies;
Who has vowed to wear the willow
Looks a fool, tricked out in roses.
Who are you, my lad, to ease me?
Leave your pretty words unspoken.
Tinkling echoes little please me,
Now my heart is freshly broken.
Over young are you to guide me,
And your blood is slow and sleeping.
If you must, then sit beside me....
Tell me, why have I been weeping?
_De Profundis_
Oh, is it, then, Utopian
To hope that I may meet a man
Who'll not relate, in accents suave,
The tales of girls he used to have?
_They Part_
And if, my friend, you'd have it end,
There's naught to hear or tell.
But need you try to black my eye
In wishing me farewell?
Though I admit an edgèd wit
In woe is warranted.
May I be frank? ... Such words as "----"
Are better left unsaid.
There's rosemary for you and me;
But is it usual, dear.
To hire a man, and fill a van
By way of _souvenir_?
_Ballade of a Great Weariness_
There's little to have but the things I had,
There's little to bear but the things I bore.
There's nothing to carry and naught to add,
And glory to Heaven, I paid the score.
There's little to do but I did before,
There's little to learn but the things I know;
And this is the sum of a lasting lore:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.
And couldn't it be I was young and mad
If ever my heart on my sleeve I wore?
There's many to claw at a heart unclad,
And little the wonder it ripped and tore.
There's one that'll join in their push and roar,
With stories to jabber, and stones to throw;
He'll fetch you a lesson that costs you sore--
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.
So little I'll offer to you, my lad;
It's little in loving I set my store.
There's many a maid would be flushed and glad,
And better you'll knock at a kindlier door.
I'll dig at my lettuce, and sweep my floor--
Forever, forever I'm done with woe--
And happen I'll whistle about my chore,
"Scratch a lover and find a foe."