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[Illustration: Cover Page]
_Chimneysmoke_
[Illustration: Chimneysmoke]
_By Christopher Morley_
CHIMNEYSMOKE
HIDE AND SEEK
THE ROCKING HORSE
SONGS FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
MINCE PIE
_New York: George H. Doran Company_
[Illustration:
_This hearth was built for thy delight,_
_For thee the logs were sawn,_
_For thee the largest chair, at night,_
_Is to the chimney drawn._
_For thee, dear lass, the match was lit,_
_To yield the ruddy blaze--_
_May Jack Frost give us joy of it_
_For many, many days._]
=_Chimneysmoke_=
_by_
_Christopher Morley_
[Illustration: Fireside Chair]
_Illustrated by_
_Thomas Fogarty_
_Garden City New York_
_Doubleday, Page & Co._
_1927_
COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1919, 1920, 1921
BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN
THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY
LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y.
_"How can I turn from any fire_
_On any man's hearthstone?_
_I know the wonder and desire_
_That went to build my own."_
--RUDYARD KIPLING, "_The Fires_"
_Author's Note_
There are a number of poems in this collection that have not previously
appeared in book form. But, as a few readers may discern, many of the
verses are reprinted from _Songs for a Little House_(1917),
_The Rocking Horse_ (1919) and _Hide and Seek_ (1920). There is
also one piece revived from the judicious obscurity of an early escapade,
_The Eighth Sin_, published in Oxford in 1912. It is on Mr. Thomas
Fogarty's delightful and sympathetic drawings that this book rests its
real claim to be considered a new venture. To Mr. Fogarty, and to
Mr. George H. Doran, whose constant kindness and generosity contradict
all the traditions about publishers and minor poets, the author expresses
his permanent gratitude.
_Roslyn, Long Island._
[Illustration: Boat on Lake]
_Contents_
PAGE
TO THE LITTLE HOUSE 19
A GRACE BEFORE WRITING 20
DEDICATION FOR A FIREPLACE 21
TAKING TITLE 22
THE SECRET 25
ONLY A MATTER OF TIME 26
AT THE MERMAID CAFETERIA 28
OUR HOUSE 29
ON NAMING A HOUSE 31
A HALLOWE'EN MEMORY 32
REFUSING YOU IMMORTALITY 35
BAYBERRY CANDLES 36
SECRET LAUGHTER 37
SIX WEEKS OLD 38
A CHARM 41
MY PIPE 42
THE 5:42 44
PETER PAN 48
IN HONOR OF TAFFY TOPAZ 49
THE CEDAR CHEST 50
READING ALOUD 51
ANIMAL CRACKERS 52
THE MILKMAN 55
LIGHT VERSE 56
THE FURNACE 57
WASHING THE DISHES 58
THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES 61
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN 62
THE OLD SWIMMER 66
THE MOON-SHEEP 70
SMELLS 71
SMELLS (JUNIOR) 72
MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN 75
THE FAT LITTLE PURSE 76
THE REFLECTION 80
THE BALLOON PEDDLER 82
LINES FOR AN ECCENTRIC'S BOOK PLATE 86
TO A POST-OFFICE INKWELL 89
THE CRIB 90
THE POET 94
TO A DISCARDED MIRROR 97
TO A CHILD 98
TO A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN 100
TO AN OLD-FASHIONED POET 104
BURNING LEAVES IN SPRING 105
BURNING LEAVES, NOVEMBER 106
A VALENTINE GAME 107
FOR A BIRTHDAY 108
KEATS 111
TO H. F. M., A SONNET IN SUNLIGHT 113
QUICKENING 114
AT A WINDOW SILL 115
THE RIVER OF LIGHT 116
OF HER GLORIOUS MADNESS 118
IN AN AUCTION ROOM 119
EPITAPH FOR A POET WHO WROTE NO POETRY 120
SONNET BY A GEOMETER 121
TO A VAUDEVILLE TERRIER 122
TO AN OLD FRIEND 125
TO A BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE 126
THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK 129
STREETS 130
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER 131
PEDOMETER 133
HOSTAGES 134
ARS DURA 137
O. HENRY--APOTHECARY 138
FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET 139
TWO O'CLOCK 140
THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER 141
THE WEDDED LOVER 142
TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST 143
CHARLES AND MARY 144
TO A GRANDMOTHER 145
DIARISTS 146
THE LAST SONNET 147
THE SAVAGE 148
ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH 149
ADVICE TO A CITY 150
THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY 151
GREEN ESCAPE 153
VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS 157
THE ICE WAGON 158
AT A MOVIE THEATRE 161
SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE 163
THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS) 167
DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD? 168
RAPID TRANSIT 170
CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW 171
TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS 172
PEACE 173
SONG, IN DEPRECATION OF PULCHRITUDE 175
MOUNTED POLICE 176
TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT HE IS
NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY 179
THE INTRUDER 181
TIT FOR TAT 182
SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE 185
THE PLUMPUPPETS 186
DANDY DANDELION 190
THE HIGH CHAIR 192
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 193
AUTUMN COLORS 197
THE LAST CRICKET 198
TO LOUISE 199
CHRISTMAS EVE 203
EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE
ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA 204
THE MUSIC BOX 205
TO LUATH 209
THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND 212
A SYMPOSIUM 214
TO A TELEPHONE OPERATOR WHO HAS A
BAD COLD 218
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED 219
THE TWINS 227
A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL 228
THE POET ON THE HEARTH 230
O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY 231
A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD 235
THE MADONNA OF THE CURB 236
THE ISLAND 240
SUNDAY NIGHT 242
ENGLAND, JULY, 1913 246
CASUALTY 250
A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL 251
PRELIMINARY INSTRUCTIONS FOR A FUNERAL
SERVICE 253
[Illustration: Girl on Stool]
_Illustrations_
PAGE
_This hearth was built for thy delight_-- _Frontispiece_
_And by a friend's bright gift of wine,_
_I dedicate this house of mine_ 23
_And of all man's felicities_-- 33
_A little world he feels and sees:_
_His mother's arms, his mother's knees_-- 39
_The 5:42_ 45
_And Daddy once said he would like to be me_
_Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!_ 53
_But heavy feeding complicates_
_The task by soiling many plates_ 59
_How ill avail, on such a frosty night_ 63
_The old swimmer_ 67
_But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all_-- 73
_Perhaps it's a ragged child crying_ 77
_The Balloon Peddler_ 83
_If you appreciate it more_
_Than I--why don't return it!_ 87
_And then one night_-- 91
_The human cadence and the subtle chime_
_Of little laughters_-- 95
_What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps_-- 101
_A Birthday_ 109
_You must be rigid servant of your art!_ 123
_You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care_
_Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire_ 127
_Hostages_ 135
_My eyes still pine for the comely line_
_Of an outbound vessel's hull_ 155
_A man ain't so secretive, never cares_
_What kind of private papers he leaves lay_-- 165
_Mounted Police_ 177
_Courtesy_ 183
_The Plumpuppets_ 187
... _It's hard to have to tell_
_How unresponsive I have found her_ 195
... _When you see, this Great First Time,_
_Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!_ 201
_The music box_ 207
_Solugubrious_ 215
_In the midnight, like yourself,_
_I explore the pantry shelf!_ 221
_The Twins_ 227
_O praise me not the country_ 233
_The wail of sickly children_-- 237
_Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--_
_Beget that shadow on her brow?_ 243
_Chimneysmoke_
[Illustration: Girl by Gate]
_=Chimneysmoke=_
TO THE LITTLE HOUSE
Dear little house, dear shabby street,
Dear books and beds and food to eat!
How feeble words are to express
The facets of your tenderness.
How white the sun comes through the pane!
In tinkling music drips the rain!
How burning bright the furnace glows!
What paths to shovel when it snows!
O dearly loved Long Island trains!
O well remembered joys and pains....
How near the housetops Beauty leans
Along that little street in Queens!
Let these poor rhymes abide for proof
Joy dwells beneath a humble roof;
Heaven is not built of country seats
But little queer suburban streets!
March, 1917.
A GRACE BEFORE WRITING
This is a sacrament, I think!
Holding the bottle toward the light,
As blue as lupin gleams the ink;
May Truth be with me as I write!
That small dark cistern may afford
Reunion with some vanished friend,--
And with this ink I have just poured
May none but honest words be penned!
DEDICATION FOR A FIREPLACE
This hearth was built for thy delight,
For thee the logs were sawn,
For thee the largest chair, at night,
Is to the chimney drawn.
For thee, dear lass, the match was lit
To yield the ruddy blaze--
May Jack Frost give us joy of it
For many, many days.
TAKING TITLE
To make this house my very own
Could not be done by law alone.
Though covenant and deed convey
Absolute fee, as lawyers say,
There are domestic rites beside
By which this house is sanctified.
By kindled fire upon the hearth,
By planted pansies in the garth,
By food, and by the quiet rest
Of those brown eyes that I love best,
And by a friend's bright gift of wine,
I dedicate this house of mine.
When all but I are soft abed
I trail about my quiet stead
A wreath of blue tobacco smoke
(A charm that evil never broke)
And bring my ritual to an end
By giving shelter to a friend.
These done, O dwelling, you become
Not just a house, but truly Home!
[Illustration:
_And by a friend's bright gift of wine,_
_I dedicate this house of mine_]
THE SECRET
It was the House of Quietness
To which I came at dusk;
The garth was lit with roses
And heavy with their musk.
The tremulous tall poplar trees
Stood whispering around,
The gentle flicker of their plumes
More quiet than no sound.
And as I wondered at the door
What magic might be there,
The Lady of Sweet Silences
Came softly down the stair.
ONLY A MATTER OF TIME
Down-slipping Time, sweet, swift, and shallow stream,
Here, like a boulder, lies this afternoon
Across your eager flow. So you shall stay,
Deepened and dammed, to let me breathe and be.
Your troubled fluency, your running gleam
Shall pause, and circle idly, still and clear:
The while I lie and search your glassy pool
Where, gently coiling in their lazy round,
Unseparable minutes drift and swim,
Eddy and rise and brim. And I will see
How many crystal bubbles of slack Time
The mind can hold and cherish in one _Now_!
Now, for one conscious vacancy of sense,
The stream is gathered in a deepening pond,
Not a mere moving mirror. Through the sharp
Correct reflection of the standing scene
The mind can dip, and cleanse itself with rest,
And see, slow spinning in the lucid gold,
Your liquid motes, imperishable Time.
It cannot be. The runnel slips away:
The clear smooth downward sluice begins again,
More brightly slanting for that trembling pause,
Leaving the sense its conscious vague unease
As when a sonnet flashes on the mind,
Trembles and burns an instant, and is gone.
AT THE MERMAID CAFETERIA
Truth is enough for prose:
Calmly it goes
To tell just what it knows.
For verse, skill will suffice--
Delicate, nice
Casting of verbal dice.
Poetry, men attain
By subtler pain
More flagrant in the brain--
An honesty unfeigned,
A heart unchained,
A madness well restrained.
OUR HOUSE
It should be yours, if I could build
The quaint old dwelling I desire,
With books and pictures bravely filled
And chairs beside an open fire,
White-panelled rooms with candles lit--
I lie awake to think of it!
A dial for the sunny hours,
A garden of old-fashioned flowers--
Say marigolds and lavender
And mignonette and fever-few,
And Judas-tree and maidenhair
And candytuft and thyme and rue--
All these for you to wander in.
A Chinese carp (called _Mandarin_)
Waving a sluggish silver fin
Deep in the moat: so tame he comes
To lip your fingers offering crumbs.
Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,
White shutters, ivy green and thick,
And walls of ruddy Tudor brick
Grown mellow with the passing years.
And windows with small leaded panes,
Broad window-seats for when it rains;
A big blue bowl of pot pourri
And--yes, a Spanish chestnut tree
To coin the autumn's minted gold.
A summer house for drinking tea--
All these (just think!) for you and me.
A staircase of the old black wood
Cut in the days of Robin Hood,
And banisters worn smooth as glass
Down which your hand will lightly pass;
A piano with pale yellow keys
For wistful twilight melodies,
And dusty bottles in a bin--
All these for you to revel in!
But when? Ah well, until that time
We'll habit in this house of rhyme.
1912
ON NAMING A HOUSE
When I a householder became
I had to give my house a name.
I thought I'd call it "Poplar Trees,"
Or "Widdershins" or "Velvet Bees,"
Or "Just Beneath a Star."
I thought of "House Where Plumbings Freeze,"
Or "As You Like it," "If You Please,"
Or "Nicotine" or "Bread and Cheese,"
"Full Moon" or "Doors Ajar."
But still I sought some subtle charm,
Some rune to guard my roof from harm
And keep the devil far;
I thought of this, and I was saved!
I had my letter-heads engraved
_The House Where Brown Eyes Are._
A HALLOWE'EN MEMORY
Do you remember, Heart's Desire,
The night when Hallowe'en first came?
The newly dedicated fire,
The hearth unsanctified by flame?
How anxiously we swept the bricks
(How tragic, were the draught not right!)
And then the blaze enwrapped the sticks
And filled the room with dancing light.
We could not speak, but only gaze,
Nor half believe what we had seen--
_Our_ home, _our_ hearth, _our_ golden blaze,
_Our_ cider mugs, _our_ Hallowe'en!
And then a thought occurred to me--
We ran outside with sudden shout
And looked up at the roof, to see
Our own dear smoke come drifting out.
And of all man's felicities
The very subtlest one, say I,
Is when, for the first time, he sees
His hearthfire smoke against the sky.
[Illustration:
_And of all man's felicities_
_The very subtlest one, say I,_
_Is when, for the first time, he sees_
_His hearthfire smoke against the sky._]
REFUSING YOU IMMORTALITY
If I should tell, unstinted,
Your beauty and your grace,
All future lads would whisper
Traditions of your face;
If I made public tumult
Your mirth, your queenly state,
Posterity would grumble
That it was born too late.
I will not frame your beauty
In bright undying phrase,
Nor blaze it as a legend
For unborn men to praise--
For why should future lovers
Be saddened and depressed?
Deluded, let them fancy
Their own girls loveliest!
BAYBERRY CANDLES
Dear sweet, when dusk comes up the hill,
The fire leaps high with golden prongs;
I place along the chimneysill
The tiny candles of my songs.
And though unsteadily they burn,
As evening shades from gray to blue
Like candles they will surely learn
To shine more clear, for love of you.
SECRET LAUGHTER
"I had a secret laughter."
--Walter de la Mare.
There is a secret laughter
That often comes to me,
And though I go about my work
As humble as can be,
There is no prince or prelate
I envy--no, not one.
No evil can befall me--
By God, I have a son!
SIX WEEKS OLD
He is so small, he does not know
The summer sun, the winter snow;
The spring that ebbs and comes again,
All this is far beyond his ken.
A little world he feels and sees:
His mother's arms, his mother's knees;
He hides his face against her breast,
And does not care to learn the rest.
[Illustration:
_A little world he feels and sees:_
_His mother's arms, his mother's knees_--]
A CHARM
For Our New Fireplace,
To Stop Its Smoking
O wood, burn bright; O flame, be quick;
O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue--
My lady chose your every brick
And sets her dearest hopes on you!
Logs cannot burn, nor tea be sweet,
Nor white bread turn to crispy toast,
Until the charm be made complete
By love, to lay the sooty ghost.
And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,
Dear china and mahogany,
Draw close, for on the happy stairs
My brown-eyed girl comes down for tea!
MY PIPE
My pipe is old
And caked with soot;
My wife remarks:
"How can you put
That horrid relic,
So unclean,
Inside your mouth?
The nicotine
Is strong enough
To stupefy
A Swedish plumber."
I reply:
"This is the kind
Of pipe I like:
I fill it full
Of Happy Strike,
Or Barking Cat
Or Cabman's Puff,
Or Brooklyn Bridge
(That potent stuff)
Or Chaste Embraces,
Knacker's Twist,
Old Honeycomb
Or Niggerfist.
I clamp my teeth
Upon its stem--
It is my bliss,
My diadem.
Whatever Fate
May do to me,
This is my favorite
B
B B.
For this dear pipe
You feign to scorn
I smoked the night
The boy was born."
THE 5:42
Lilac, violet, and rose
Ardently the city glows;
Sunset glory, purely sweet,
Gilds the dreaming byway-street,
And, above the Avenue,
Winter dusk is deepening blue.
(Then, across Long Island meadows,
Darker, darker, grow the shadows:
Patience, little waiting lass!
Laggard minutes slowly pass;
Patience, laughs the yellow fire:
Homeward bound is heart's desire!)
Hark, adown the canyon street
Flows the merry tide of feet;
High the golden buildings loom
Blazing in the purple gloom;
All the town is set with stars,
_Homeward_ chant the Broadway cars!
All down Thirty-second Street
_Homeward, Homeward_, say the feet!
Tramping men, uncouth to view,
Footsore, weary, thrill anew;
Gone the ringing telephones,
Blessed nightfall now atones,
Casting brightness on the snow
Golden the train windows go.
Then (how long it seems) at last
All the way is overpast.
Heart that beats your muffled drum,
Lo, your venturer is come!
Wide the door! Leap high, O fire!
Home at length is heart's desire!
Gone is weariness and fret,
At the sill warm lips are met.
Once again may be renewed
The conjoined beatitude.
[Illustration: _The 5:42_]
PETER PAN
"The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan--the original of
Peter Pan--has died in battle."
--New York Times.
And Peter Pan is dead? Not so!
When mothers turn the lights down low
And tuck their little sons in bed,
They know that Peter is not dead....
That little rounded blanket-hill;
Those prayer-time eyes, so deep and still--
However wise and great a man
He grows, he still is Peter Pan.
And mothers' ways are often queer:
They pause in doorways, just to hear
A tiny breathing; think a prayer;
And then go tiptoe down the stair.
IN HONOR OF TAFFY TOPAZ
Taffy, the topaz-colored cat,
Thinks now of this and now of that,
But chiefly of his meals.
Asparagus, and cream, and fish,
Are objects of his Freudian wish;
What you don't give, he steals.
His gallant heart is strongly stirred
By clink of plate or flight of bird,
He has a plumy tail;
At night he treads on stealthy pad
As merry as Sir Galahad
A-seeking of the Grail.
His amiable amber eyes
Are very friendly, very wise;
Like Buddha, grave and fat,
He sits, regardless of applause,
And thinking, as he kneads his paws,
What fun to be a cat!
THE CEDAR CHEST
Her mind is like her cedar chest
Wherein in quietness do rest
The wistful dreamings of her heart
In fragrant folds all laid apart.
There, put away in sprigs of rhyme
Until her life's full blossom-time,
Flutter (like tremulous little birds)
Her small and sweet maternal words.
READING ALOUD
Once we read Tennyson aloud
In our great fireside chair;
Between the lines, my lips could touch
Her April-scented hair.
How very fond I was, to think
The printed poems fair,
When close within my arms I held
A living lyric there!
ANIMAL CRACKERS
Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do _you_ choose when you're offered a treat?
When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It's cocoa and animals that _I_ love most!
The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don't have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said, he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!
[Illustration:
_And Daddy once said he would like to be me_
_Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!_]
THE MILKMAN
Early in the morning, when the dawn is on the roofs,
You hear his wheels come rolling, you hear his horse's hoofs;
You hear the bottles clinking, and then he drives away:
You yawn in bed, turn over, and begin another day!
The old-time dairy maids are dear to every poet's heart--
I'd rather be the dairy _man_ and drive a little cart,
And bustle round the village in the early morning blue,
And hang my reins upon a hook, as I've seen Casey do.
LIGHT VERSE
At night the gas lamps light our street,
Electric bulbs our homes;
The gas is billed in cubic feet,
Electric light in ohms.
But one illumination still
Is brighter far, and sweeter;
It is not figured in a bill,
Nor measured by a meter.
More bright than lights that money buys,
More pleasing to discerners,
The shining lamps of Helen's eyes,
Those lovely double burners!
THE FURNACE
At night I opened
The furnace door:
The warm glow brightened
The cellar floor.
The fire that sparkled
Blue and red,
Kept small toes cosy
In their bed.
As up the stair
So late I stole,
I said my prayer:
_Thank God for coal!_
WASHING THE DISHES
When we on simple rations sup
How easy is the washing up!
But heavy feeding complicates
The task by soiling many plates.
And though I grant that I have prayed
That we might find a serving-maid,
I'd scullion all my days, I think,
To see Her smile across the sink!
I wash, She wipes. In water hot
I souse each dish and pan and pot;
While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,
And rubs himself against my legs.
The man who never in his life
Has washed the dishes with his wife
Or polished up the silver plate--
He still is largely celibate.
One warning: there is certain ware
That must be handled with all care:
The Lord Himself will give you up
If you should drop a willow cup!
[Illustration:
_But heavy feeding complicates_
_The task by soiling many plates._]
THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES
As I went by the church to-day
I heard the organ cry;
And goodly folk were on their knees,
But I went striding by.
My minster hath a roof more vast:
My aisles are oak trees high;
My altar-cloth is on the hills,
My organ is the sky.
I see my rood upon the clouds,
The winds, my chanted choir;
My crystal windows, heaven-glazed,
Are stained with sunset fire.
The stars, the thunder, and the rain,
White sands and purple seas--
These are His pulpit and His pew,
My God of Unbent Knees!
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN
The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam,
The coal supply is virtually done,
And at this price, indeed it does not seem
As though we could afford another ton.
Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;
The radiators lose their temperature:
How ill avail, on such a frosty night,
The "short and simple flannels of the poor."
Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,
The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:
We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.
Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust
Revivify the failing pressure-gauge?
Chop up the grand piano if you must,
And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!
Full many a can of purest kerosene
The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil
Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean
To bring my morning coffee to a boil.
[Illustration: _How ill avail, on such a frosty night_....]
THE OLD SWIMMER
I often wander on the beach
Where once, so brown of limb,
The biting air, the roaring surf
Summoned me to swim.
I see my old abundant youth
Where combers lean and spill,
And though I taste the foam no more
Other swimmers will.
Oh, good exultant strength to meet
The arching wall of green,
To break the crystal, swirl, emerge
Dripping, taut, and clean.
To climb the moving hilly blue,
To dive in ecstasy
And feel the salty chill embrace
Arm and rib and knee.
What brave and vanished laughter then
And tingling thighs to run,
What warm and comfortable sands
Dreaming in the sun.
The crumbling water spreads in snow,
The surf is hissing still,
And though I kiss the salt no more
Other swimmers will.
[Illustration: The Old Swimmer]
THE MOON-SHEEP
The moon seems like a docile sheep,
She pastures while all people sleep;
But sometimes, when she goes astray,
She wanders all alone by day.
Up in the clear blue morning air
We are surprised to see her there,
Grazing in her woolly white,
Waiting the return of night.
When dusk lets down the meadow bars
She greets again her lambs, the stars!
SMELLS
Why is it that the poets tell
So little of the sense of smell?
These are the odors I love well:
The smell of coffee freshly ground;
Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;
Or onions fried and deeply browned.
The fragrance of a fumy pipe;
The smell of apples, newly ripe;
And printers' ink on leaden type.
Woods by moonlight in September
Breathe most sweet; and I remember
Many a smoky camp-fire ember.
Camphor, turpentine, and tea,
The balsam of a Christmas tree,
These are whiffs of gramarye ...
_A ship smells best of all to me!_
SMELLS (JUNIOR)
My Daddy smells like tobacco and books,
Mother, like lavender and listerine;
Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars,
Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean.
Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own
(When he's been out in the rain he smells most);
But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all--
She smells exactly like hot buttered toast!
[Illustration: _But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all_--]
MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN
I like the Chinese laundryman:
He smokes a pipe that bubbles,
And seems, as far as I can tell,
A man with but few troubles.
He has much to do, no doubt,
But also much to think about.
Most men (for instance I myself)
Are spending, at all times,
All our hard-earned quarters,
Our nickels and our dimes:
With Mar Quong it's the other way--
He takes in small change every day.
Next time you call for collars
In his steamy little shop,
Observe how tight his pigtail
Is coiled and piled on top.
But late at night he lets it hang
And thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.
THE FAT LITTLE PURSE
On Saturdays, after the baby
Is bathed, fed, and sleeping serene,
His mother, as quickly as may be,
Arranges the household routine.
She rapidly makes herself pretty
And leaves the young limb with his nurse,
Then gaily she starts for the city,
And with her the fat little purse.
She trips through the crowd at the station,
To the rendezvous spot where we meet,
And keeping her eyes from temptation,
She avoids the most windowy street!
She is off for the Weekly Adventure;
To her comrade for better and worse
She says, "Never mind, when you've spent your
Last bit, here's the fat little purse."
Apart, in her thrifty exchequer,
She has hidden what must not be spent:
Enough for the butcher and baker,
Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent;
But the rest of her brave little treasure
She is gleeful and prompt to disburse--
What a richness of innocent pleasure
Can come from her fat little purse!
But either by giving or buying,
The little purse does not stay fat--
Perhaps it's a ragged child crying,
Perhaps it's a "pert little hat."
And the bonny brown eyes that were brightened
By pleasures so quaint and diverse,
Look up at me, wistful and frightened,
To see such a thin little purse.
The wisest of all financiering
Is that which is done by our wives:
By some little known profiteering
They add twos and twos and make fives;
And, husband, if you would be learning
The secret of thrift, it is terse:
Invest the great part of your earning
In her little, fat little purse.
[Illustration: _Perhaps it's a ragged child crying_]
THE REFLECTION
(To N. B. D.)
I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face,
Nor touched her hand;
And yet some echo of her woman's grace
I understand.
I have no picture of her lovelihood,
Her smile, her tint;
But that she is both beautiful and good
I have true hint.
In all that my friend thinks and says, I see
Her mirror true;
His thought of her is gentle; she must be
All gentle too.
In all his grief or laughter, work or play,
Each mood and whim,
How brave and tender, day by common day,
She speaks through him!
Therefore I say I know her, be her face
Or dark or fair--
For when he shows his heart's most secret place
I see her there!
THE BALLOON PEDDLER
Who is the man on Chestnut street
With colored toy balloons?
I see him with his airy freight
On sunny afternoons--
A peddler of such lovely goods!
The heart leaps to behold
His mass of bubbles, red and green
And blue and pink and gold.
For sure that noble peddler man
Hath antic merchandise:
His toys that float and swim in air
Attract my eager eyes.
Perhaps he is a changeling prince
Bewitched through magic moons
To tempt us solemn busy folk
With meaningless balloons.
Beware, oh, valiant merchantman,
Tread cautious on the pave!
Lest some day come some realist,
Some haggard soul and grave,
A puritan efficientist
Who deems thy toys a sin--
He'll stalk thee madly from behind
And prick them with a pin!
[Illustration: _The Balloon Peddler_]
LINES FOR AN ECCENTRIC'S
BOOK PLATE
To use my books all friends are bid:
My shelves are open for 'em;
And in each one, as Grolier did,
I write _Et Amicorum_.
All lovely things in truth belong
To him who best employs them;
The house, the picture and the song
Are his who most enjoys them.
Perhaps this book holds precious lore,
And you may best discern it.
If you appreciate it more
Than I--why don't return it!
[Illustration:
_If you appreciate it more_
_Than I--why don't return it!_]
TO A POST-OFFICE INKWELL
How many humble hearts have dipped
In you, and scrawled their manuscript!
Have shared their secrets, told their cares,
Their curious and quaint affairs!
Your pool of ink, your scratchy pen,
Have moved the lives of unborn men,
And watched young people, breathing hard,
Put Heaven on a postal card.
THE CRIB
I sought immortality
Here and there--
I sent my rockets
Into the air:
I gave my name
A hostage to ink;
I dined a critic
And bought him drink.
I spurned the weariness
Of the flesh;
Denied fatigue
And began afresh--
If men knew all,
How they would laugh!
I even planned
My epitaph....
And then one night
When the dusk was thin
I heard the nursery
Rites begin:
I heard the tender
Soothings said
Over a crib, and
A small sweet head.
Then in a flash
It came to me
That there was my
Immortality!
[Illustration:
_And then one night_
_When the dusk was thin_
_I heard the nursery_
_Rites begin--_]
THE POET
The barren music of a word or phrase,
The futile arts of syllable and stress,
He sought. The poetry of common days
He did not guess.
The simplest, sweetest rhythms life affords--
Unselfish love, true effort truly done,
The tender themes that underlie all words--
He knew not one.
The human cadence and the subtle chime
Of little laughters, home and child and wife,
He knew not. Artist merely in his rhyme,
Not in his life.
[Illustration:
_The human cadence and the subtle chime_
_Of little laughters_--]
TO A DISCARDED MIRROR
[Transcriber's Note: The text below was in mirrored
image in the original text].
Dear glass, before your silver pane
My lady used to tend her hair;
And yet I search your disc in vain
To find some shadow of her there.
I thought your magic, deep and bright,
Might still some dear reflection hold:
Some glint of eyes or shoulders white,
Some flash of gowns she wore of old.
Your polished round must still recall
The laughing face, the neck like snow--
Remember, on your lonely wall,
That Helen used you long ago!
TO A CHILD
The greatest poem ever known
Is one all poets have outgrown:
The poetry, innate, untold,
Of being only four years old.
Still young enough to be a part
Of Nature's great impulsive heart,
Born comrade of bird, beast and tree
And unselfconscious as the bee--
And yet with lovely reason skilled
Each day new paradise to build;
Elate explorer of each sense,
Without dismay, without pretence!
In your unstained transparent eyes
There is no conscience, no surprise:
Life's queer conundrums you accept,
Your strange divinity still kept.
Being, that now absorbs you, all
Harmonious, unit, integral,
Will shred into perplexing bits,--
Oh, contradictions of the wits!
And Life, that sets all things in rhyme,
May make you poet, too, in time--
But there were days, O tender elf,
When you were Poetry itself!
TO A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN
My child, what painful vistas are before you!
What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps--
Indignities from aunts who "just adore" you,
And chicken-pox and measles, croup and mumps!
I don't wish to dismay you,--it's not fair to,
Promoted now from bassinet to crib,--
But, O my babe, what troubles flesh is heir to
Since God first made so free with Adam's rib!
Laboriously you will proceed with teething;
When teeth are here, you'll meet the dentist's chair;
They'll teach you ways of walking, eating, breathing,
That stoves are hot, and how to brush your hair;
And so, my poor, undaunted little stripling,
By bruises, tears, and trousers you will grow,
And, borrowing a leaf from Mr. Kipling,
I'll wish you luck, and moralize you so:
If you can think up seven thousand methods
Of giving cooks and parents heart disease;
Can rifle pantry-shelves, and then give death odds
By water, fire, and falling out of trees;
If you can fill your every boyish minute
With sixty seconds' worth of mischief done,
Yours is the house and everything that's in it,
And, which is more, you'll be your father's son!
[Illustration: _What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps_--]
TO AN OLD-FASHIONED POET
(Lizette Woodworth Reese)
Most tender poet, when the gods confer
They save your gracile songs a nook apart,
And bless with Time's untainted lavender
The ageless April of your singing heart.
You, in an age unbridled, ne'er declined
The appointed patience that the Muse decrees,
Until, deep in the flower of the mind
The hovering words alight, like bridegroom bees.
By casual praise or casual blame unstirred
The placid gods grant gifts where they belong:
To you, who understand, the perfect word,
The recompensed necessities of song.
BURNING LEAVES IN SPRING
When withered leaves are lost in flame
Their eddying ghosts, a thin blue haze,
Blow through the thickets whence they came
On amberlucent autumn days.
The cool green woodland heart receives
Their dim, dissolving, phantom breath;
In young hereditary leaves
They see their happy life-in-death.
My minutes perish as they glow--
Time burns my crazy bonfire through;
But ghosts of blackened hours still blow,
Eternal Beauty, back to you!
BURNING LEAVES, NOVEMBER
These are folios of April,
All the library of spring,
Missals gilt and rubricated
With the frost's illumining.
Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,
Set the torch with hand profane--
Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,
Like the books of burnt Louvain!
Yet these classics are immortal:
O collectors, have no fear,
For the publisher will issue
New editions every year.
A VALENTINE GAME
(_For Two Players_)
They have a game, thus played:
He says unto his maid
_What are those shining things_
_So brown, so golden brown?_
And she, in doubt, replies
_How now, what shining things_
_So brown?_
But then, she coming near,
To see more clear,
He looks again, and cries
(All startled with surprise)
_Sweet wretch, they are your eyes,_
_So brown, so brown!_
The climax and the end consist
In kissing, and in being kissed.
FOR A BIRTHDAY
At two years old the world he sees
Must seem expressly made to please!
Such new-found words and games to try,
Such sudden mirth, he knows not why,
So many curiosities!
As life about him, by degrees
Discloses all its pageantries
He watches with approval shy
At two years old.
With wonders tired he takes his ease
At dusk, upon his mother's knees:
A little laugh, a little cry,
Put toys to bed, then "seepy-bye"--
The world is made of such as these
At two years old.
[Illustration: _A Birthday_]
KEATS
(1821-1921)
When sometimes, on a moony night, I've passed
A street-lamp, seen my doubled shadow flee,
I've noticed how much darker, clearer cast,
The full moon poured her silhouette of me.
Just so of spirits. Beauty's silver light
Limns with a ray more pure, and tenderer too:
Men's clumsy gestures, to unearthly sight,
Surpass the shapes they show by human view.
On this brave world, where few such meteors fell,
Her youngest son, to save us, Beauty flung.
He suffered and descended into hell--
And comforts yet the ardent and the young.
Drunken of moonlight, dazed by draughts of sky,
Dizzy with stars, his mortal fever ran:
His utterance a moon-enchanted cry
Not free from folly--for he too was man.
And now and here, a hundred years away,
Where topless towers shadow golden streets,
The young men sit, nooked in a cheap café,
Perfectly happy ... talking about Keats.
TO H. F. M.
A SONNET IN SUNLIGHT
This is a day for sonnets: Oh how clear
Our splendid cliffs and summits lift the gaze--
If all the perfect moments of the year
Were poured and gathered in one sudden blaze,
Then, then perhaps, in some endowered phrase
My flat strewn words would rise and come more near
To tell of you. Your beauty and your praise
Would fall like sunlight on this paper here.
Then I would build a sonnet that would stand
Proud and perennial on this pale bright sky;
So tall, so steep, that it might stay the hand
Of Time, the dusty wrecker. He would sigh
To tear my strong words down. And he would say:
"That song he built for her, one summer day."
QUICKENING
Such little, puny things are words in rhyme:
Poor feeble loops and strokes as frail as hairs;
You see them printed here, and mark their chime,
And turn to your more durable affairs.
Yet on such petty tools the poet dares
To run his race with mortar, bricks and lime,
And draws his frail stick to the point, and stares
To aim his arrow at the heart of Time.
Intangible, yet pressing, hemming in,
This measured emptiness engulfs us all,
And yet he points his paper javelin
And sees it eddy, waver, turn, and fall,
And feels, between delight and trouble torn,
The stirring of a sonnet still unborn.
AT A WINDOW SILL
_To write a sonnet needs a quiet mind...._
I paused and pondered, tried again. _To write...._
Raising the sash, I breathed the winter night:
Papers and small hot room were left behind.
Against the gusty purple, ribbed and spined
With golden slots and vertebræ of light
Men's cages loomed. Down sliding from a height
An elevator winked as it declined.
Coward! There is no quiet in the brain--
If pity burns it not, then beauty will:
Tinder it is for every blowing spark.
Uncertain whether this is bliss or pain
The unresting mind will gaze across the sill
From high apartment windows, in the dark.
THE RIVER OF LIGHT
I. Broadway, 103rd to 96th.
Lights foam and bubble down the gentle grade:
Bright shine chop sueys and rôtisseries;
In pink translucence glowingly displayed
See camisole and stocking and chemise.
Delicatessen windows full of cheese--
Above, the chimes of church-bells toll and fade--
And then, from off some distant Palisade
That gluey savor on the Jersey breeze!
The burning bulbs, in green and white and red,
Spell out a _Change of Program Sun., Wed., Fri._,
A clicking taxi spins with ruby spark.
There is a sense of poising near the head
Of some great flume of brightness, flowing by
To pour in gathering torrent through the dark.
THE RIVER OF LIGHT
II. Below 96th
The current quickens, and in golden flow
Hurries its flotsam downward through the night--
Here are the rapids where the undertow
Whirls endless motors in a gleaming flight.
From blazing tributaries, left and right,
Influent streams of blue and amber grow.
Columbus Circle eddies: all below
Is pouring flame, a gorge of broken light.
See how the burning river boils in spate,
Channeled by cliffs of insane jewelry,
Painting a rosy roof on cloudy air--
And just about ten minutes after eight,
Tossing a surf of color to the sky
It bursts in cataracts upon Times Square!
OF HER GLORIOUS MADNESS
The city's mad: through her prodigious veins
What errant, strange, eccentric humors thrill:
Day, when her cataracts of sunlight spill--
Night, golden-panelled with her window panes;
The toss of wind-blown skirts; and who can drill
Forever his fierce heart with checking reins?
Cruel and mad, my statisticians say--
Ah, but she raves in such a gallant way!
Brave madness, built for beauty and the sun--
In such a town who can be sane? Not I.
Of clashing colors all her moods are spun--
A scarlet anger and a golden cry.
This frantic town where madcap mischiefs run
They ask to take the veil, and be a nun!
IN AN AUCTION ROOM
(_Letter of John Keats to Fanny Browne, Anderson Galleries,_
_March 15, 1920._)
To Dr. A. S. W. Rosenbach.
_How about this lot?_ said the auctioneer;
_One hundred, may I say, just for a start?_
Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart,
A written sheet was held.... And strange to hear
(Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art)
The cold quick bids. (_Against you in the rear!_)
The crimson salon, in a glow more clear
Burned bloodlike purple as the poet's heart.
Song that outgrew the singer! Bitter Love
That broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall;
Poor script, where still those tragic passions move--
_Eight hundred bid: fair warning: the last call:_
The soul of Adonais, like a star....
_Sold for eight hundred dollars--Doctor R.!_
EPITAPH FOR A POET WHO WROTE NO POETRY
"It is said that a poet has died young in the breast
of the most stolid."--Robert Louis Stevenson.
What was the service of this poet? He
Who blinked the blinding dazzle-rays that run
Where life profiles its edges to the sun,
And still suspected much he could not see.
Clay-stopped, yet in his taciturnity
There lay the vein of glory, known to none;
And moods of secret smiling, only won
When peace and passion, time and sense, agree.
Fighting the world he loved for chance to brood,
Ignorant when to embrace, when to avoid
His loves that held him in their vital clutch--
This was his service, his beatitude;
This was the inward trouble he enjoyed
Who knew so little, and who felt so much.
SONNET BY A GEOMETER
THE CIRCLE
Few things are perfect: we bear Eden's scar;
Yet faulty man was godlike in design
That day when first, with stick and length of twine,
He drew me on the sand. Then what could mar
His joy in that obedient mystic line;
And then, computing with a zeal divine,
He called π 3-point-14159
And knew my lovely circuit 2 π r!
A circle is a happy thing to be--
Think how the joyful perpendicular
Erected at the kiss of tangency
Must meet my central point, my avatar!
They talk of 14 points: yet only 3
Determine every circle: =Q. E. D.=
TO A VAUDEVILLE TERRIER SEEN ON A LEASH, IN THE PARK
Three times a day--at two, at seven, at nine--
O terrier, you play your little part:
Absurd in coat and skirt you push a cart,
With inner anguish walk a tight-rope line.
Up there, before the hot and dazzling shine
You must be rigid servant of your art,
Nor watch those fluffy cats--your doggish heart
Might leap and then betray you with a whine!
But sometimes, when you've faithfully rehearsed,
Your trainer takes you walking in the park,
Straining to sniff the grass, to chase a frog.
The leash is slipped, and then your joy will burst--
Adorable it is to run and bark,
To be--alas, how seldom--just a dog!
[Illustration: _You must be rigid servant of your art!_]
TO AN OLD FRIEND
(For Lloyd Williams.)
I like to dream of some established spot
Where you and I, old friend, an evening through
Under tobacco's fog, streaked gray and blue,
Might reconsider laughters unforgot.
Beside a hearth-glow, golden-clear and hot,
I'd hear you tell the oddities men do.
The clock would tick, and we would sit, we two--
Life holds such meetings for us, does it not?
Happy are men when they have learned to prize
The sure unvarnished virtue of their friends,
The unchanged kindness of a well-known face:
On old fidelities our world depends,
And runs a simple course in honest wise,
Not a mere taxicab shot wild through space!
TO A BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE
Upstage the great high-shafted beefy choir
Squawked in 2000 watts of orange glare--
You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care
Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.
Flung from the roof, spots red and yellow burned
And followed you. The blatant brassy clang
Of instruments drowned out the words you sang,
But goldenly you capered, twirled and turned.
Boyish and slender, child-limbed, quick and proud,
A sprite of irresistible disdain,
Fair as a jonquil in an April rain,
You seemed too sweet an imp for that dull crowd....
And then, behind the scenes, I heard you say,
"_O Gawd, I got a hellish cold to-day!_"
[Illustration:
_You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care_
_Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire._]
THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK
The sonnet is a trunk, and you must pack
With care, to ship frail baggage far away;
The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray;
Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack.
First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack,
And in the chinks your adjectives you lay--
Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,
Stowing a syllable in every crack.
Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid:
The tender quatrain where your moral sings--
Be careful, though, lest as you close the lid
You crush and crumple all these fragile things.
Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key--
Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.
STREETS
I have seen streets where strange enchantment broods:
Old ruddy houses where the morning shone
In seemly quiet on their tranquil moods,
Across the sills white curtains outward blown.
Their marble steps were scoured as white as bone
Where scrubbing housemaids toiled on wounded knee--
And yet, among all streets that I have known
These placid byways give least peace to me.
In such a house, where green light shining through
(From some back garden) framed her silhouette
I saw a girl, heard music blithely sung.
She stood there laughing, in a dress of blue,
And as I went on, slowly, there I met
An old, old woman, who had once been young.
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
I
I have no hope to make you live in rhyme
Or with your beauty to enrich the years--
Enough for me this now, this present time;
The greater claim for greater sonneteers.
But O how covetous I am of NOW--
Dear human minutes, marred by human pains--
I want to know your lips, your cheek, your brow,
And all the miracles your heart contains,
I wish to study all your changing face,
Your eyes, divinely hurt with tenderness;
I hope to win your dear unstinted grace
For these blunt rhymes and what they would express.
Then may you say, when others better prove:--
"_Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love._"
TO THE ONLY BEGETTER
II
When all my trivial rhymes are blotted out,
Vanished our days, so precious and so few,
If some should wonder what we were about
And what the little happenings we knew:
I wish that they might know how, night by night,
My pencil, heavy in the sleepy hours,
Sought vainly for some gracious way to write
How much this love is ours, and only ours.
How many evenings, as you drowsed to sleep,
I read to you by tawny candle-glow,
And watched you down the valley dim and deep
Where poppies and the April flowers grow.
Then knelt beside your pillow with a prayer,
And loved the breath of pansies in your hair.
PEDOMETER
My thoughts beat out in sonnets while I walk,
And every evening on the homeward street
I find the rhythm of my marching feet
Throbs into verses (though the rhyme may balk).
I think the sonneteers were walking men:
The form is dour and rigid, like a clamp,
But with the swing of legs the tramp, tramp, tramp
Of syllables begins to thud, and then--
Lo! while you seek a rhyme for _hook_ or _crook_
Vanished your shabby coat, and you are kith
To all great walk-and-singers--Meredith,
And Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, and Rupert Brooke!
Free verse is poor for walking, but a sonnet--
O marvellous to stride and brood upon it!
HOSTAGES
"He that hath wife and children hath given
hostages to fortune."--BACON.
Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!
I, that was once so heedless of thy frown,
Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down,
Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.
My virtue, that was once all self-possessed,
Is parceled out in little hands, and brown
Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:
To threaten these will put me to the test.
Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinks
Upon the makeshift armor of my heart,
For thee no honor lies in such a fight!
And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks,
Who came awake with such a painful start
To hear the coughing of a child at night.
[Illustration: _Hostages._]
ARS DURA
How many evenings, walking soberly
Along our street all dappled with rich sun,
I please myself with words, and happily
Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;
And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies
Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,
Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes
And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!
Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft
But he had put away his sleep, his ease,
The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed
To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?
And yet, such joy does in that craft abide
He greets the paper as the groom the bride!
O. HENRY--APOTHECARY
("O. Henry" once worked in a drug-store in Greensboro, N.C.)