Where one small splinter of old Adam's rib
Withstands an entire household offering spoons.
No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go
Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib
With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
Not long ago I fell in love,
But unreturned is my affection--
The girl that I'm enamored of
Pays little heed in my direction.
I thought I knew her fairly well:
In fact, I'd had my arm around her;
And so it's hard to have to tell
How unresponsive I have found her.
For, though she is not frankly rude,
Her manners quite the wrong way rub me:
It seems to me ingratitude
To let me love her--and then snub me!
Though I'm considerate and fond,
She shows no gladness when she spies me--
She gazes off somewhere beyond
And doesn't even recognize me.
Her eyes, so candid, calm and blue,
Seem asking if I can support her
In the style appropriate to
A lady like her father's daughter.
Well, if I can't then no one can--
And let me add that I intend to:
She'll never know another man
So fit for her to be a friend to.
Not love me, eh? She better had!
By Jove, I'll make her love me one day;
For, don't you see, I am her Dad,
And she'll be three weeks old on Sunday!
[Illustration:
_ ... It's hard to have to tell_
_How unresponsive I have found her._]
AUTUMN COLORS
The chestnut trees turned yellow,
The oak like sherry browned,
The fir, the stubborn fellow,
Stayed green the whole year round.
But O the bonny maple
How richly he does shine!
He glows against the sunset
Like ruddy old port wine.
THE LAST CRICKET
When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills
And dead leaves crackle under the feet,
When men roll kegs to the cider mills
And chestnuts roast on every street;
When the night sky glows like a hollow shell
Of lustered emerald and pearl,
The kilted cricket knows too well
His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.
Quavering under the polished stars
In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse
The cricket blows a few choked bars,
And puts away his pipe--and stops.
TO LOUISE
(A Christmas Baby, Now One Year Old.)
Undaunted by a world of grief
You came upon perplexing days,
And cynics doubt their disbelief
To see the sky-stains in your gaze.
Your sudden and inclusive smile
And your emphatic tears, admit
That you must find this life worth while,
So eagerly you clutch at it!
Your face of triumph says, brave mite,
That life is full of love and luck--
Of blankets to kick off at night,
And two soft rose-pink thumbs to suck.
O loveliest of pioneers
Upon this trail of long surprise,
May all the stages of the years
Show such enchantment in your eyes!
By parents' patient buttonings,
And endless safety pins, you'll grow
To ribbons, garters, hooks and things,
Up to the Ultimate Trousseau--
But never, in your dainty prime,
Will you be more adored by me
Than when you see, this Great First Time,
Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!
December, 1919.
[Illustration:
_... When you see, this Great First Time,_
_Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!_]
CHRISTMAS EVE
Our hearts to-night are open wide,
The grudge, the grief, are laid aside:
The path and porch are swept of snow,
The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow--
No visitor can be denied.
All tender human homes must hide
Some wistfulness beneath their pride:
Compassionate and humble grow
Our hearts to-night.
Let empty chair and cup abide!
Who knows? Some well-remembered stride
May come as once so long ago--
Then welcome, be it friend or foe!
There is no anger can divide
Our hearts to-night.
EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF
THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA
Majestic tomes, you are the tomb
Of Aristides Edward Bloom,
Who labored, from the world aloof,
In reading every page of proof.
From A to And, from Aus to Bis
Enthusiasm still was his;
From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con
His soft-lead pencil still went on.
But reaching volume Fra to Gib,
He knew at length that he was sib
To Satan; and he sold his soul
To reach the section Pay to Pol.
Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub
He staggered on, and sought a pub.
And just completing Vet to Zym,
The motor hearse came round for him.
He perished, obstinately brave:
They laid the Index on his grave.
THE MUSIC BOX
At six--long ere the wintry dawn--
There sounded through the silent hall
To where I lay, with blankets drawn
Above my ears, a plaintive call.
The Urchin, in the eagerness
Of three years old, could not refrain;
Awake, he straightway yearned to dress
And frolic with his clockwork train.
I heard him with a sullen shock.
His sister, by her usual plan,
Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock--
I vowed to quench the little man.
I leaned above him, somewhat stern,
And spoke, I fear, with emphasis--
Ah, how much better, parents learn,
To seal one's censure with a kiss!
Again the house was dark and still,
Again I lay in slumber's snare,
When down the hall I heard a trill,
A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air--
His music-box! His best-loved toy,
His crib companion every night;
And now he turned to it for joy
While waiting for the lagging light.
How clear, and how absurdly sad
Those tingling pricks of sound unrolled;
They chirped and quavered, as the lad
His lonely little heart consoled.
_Columbia, the Ocean's Gem_--
(Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.
He cranked the chimes, admiring them
In vigil gay, without complaint.
The treble music piped and stirred,
The leaping air that was his bliss;
And, as I most contritely heard,
I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!
The needled jets of melody
Rang slowlier and died away--
The Urchin slept; and it was I
Who lay and waited for the day.
[Illustration: _The Music Box_]
TO LUATH
(_Robert Burns's Dog_)
_"Darling Jean" was Jean Armour, a "comely country lass" whom Burns
met at a penny wedding at Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the
same quadrille when the poet's dog sprang to his master and almost
upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked that he wished he could get
any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
Some days afterward, Jean, seeing him pass as she was bleaching clothes
on the village green, called to him and asked him if he had yet got any
of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
That was the beginning of an acquaintance that coloured all of
Burns's life._
--NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
Well, Luath, man, when you came prancing
All glee to see your Robin dancing,
His partner's muslin gown mischancing
You leaped for joy!
And little guessed what sweet romancing
You caused, my boy!
With happy bark, that moment jolly,
You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie;
His other dog, old melancholy,
Was put to flight--
But what a tale of grief and folly
You wagged that night!
Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny master
Whose lyric pulse beat ever faster
Each time he saw a lass and passed her
His breast went bang!
In many a woful heart's disaster
He felt the pang!
Poor Robin's heart, forever burning,
Forever roving, ranting, yearning,
From you that heart might have been learning
To be less fickle!
Might have been spared so many a turning
And grievous prickle!
Your collie heart held but one notion--
When Robbie jigged in sprightly motion
You ran to show your own devotion
And gambolled too,
And so that tempest on love's ocean
Was due to you!
Well, it is ower late for preaching
And hearts are aye too hot for teaching!
When Robin with his eye beseeching
By greenside came,
Jeanie--poor lass--forgot her bleaching
And yours the blame!
THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND
I had a friend whose path was pain--
Oppressed by all the cares of earth
Life gave him little chance to drain
His secret cisterns of rich mirth.
His work was hasty, harassed, vexed:
His dreams were laid aside, perforce,
Until--in this world, or the next....
(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)
What funded wealth of tenderness,
What ingots of the heart and mind
He must uneasily repress
Beneath the rasping daily grind.
But now and then, and with my aid,
For fear his soul be wholly lost,
His devoir to the grape he paid
To call soul back, at any cost!
Then, liberate from discipline,
Undrugged by caution and control,
Through all his veins came flooding in
The virtued passion of his soul!
His spirit bared, and felt no shame:
With holy light his eyes would shine--
See Truth her acolyte reclaim
After the second glass of wine!
The self that life had trodden hard
Aspired, was generous and free:
The glowing heart that care had charred
Grew flame, as it was meant to be.
A pox upon the canting lot
Who call the glass the Devil's shape--
A greater pox where'er some sot
Defiles the honor of the grape.
Then look with reverence on wine
That kindles human brains uncouth--
There must be something part divine
In aught that brings us nearer Truth!
So--continently skull your fumes
(Here let our little sermon end)
And bless this X-ray that illumes
The secret bosom of your friend!
A SYMPOSIUM
There was a Russian novelist
Whose name was Solugubrious,
The reading circles took him up,
(They'd heard he was salubrious.)
The women's club of Cripple Creek
Soon held a kind of seminar
To learn just what his message was--
You know what bookworms women are.
The tea went round. After five cups
(You should have seen them bury tea)
Dear Mrs. Brown said what she liked
Was the great man's _sincerity_.
Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she was
From all besetting vanity)
Declared that she loved even more
His broad and deep _humanity_.
Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimed
All thought of being critical,
Protested that she found his work
A wee bit _analytical_.
But Mrs. Black, the President,
Of wisdom found the pinnacle:
She said, "Dear me, I always think
Those Russians are so _cynical_."
Well, poor old Solugubrious,
It's true that they had heard of him;
But neither Brown, Jones, Smith, nor Black
Had ever read a word of him!
[Illustration: _Solugubrious_]
TO A TELEPHONE OPERATOR WHO
HAS A BAD COLD
How hoarse and husky in my ear
Your usually cheerful chirrup:
You have an awful cold, my dear--
Try aspirin or bronchial syrup.
When I put in a call to-day
Compassion stirred my humane blood red
To hear you faintly, sadly, say
The number: _Burray Hill dide hudred!_
I felt (I say) quick sympathy
To hear you croak in the receiver--
Will you be sorry too for me
A month hence, when I have hay fever?
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE
TENDER-HEARTED
(Dedicated to Don Marquis.)
I
Scuttle, scuttle, little roach--
How you run when I approach:
Up above the pantry shelf.
Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin,
How I wish I could determine
How you spend your hours of ease,
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark--
Then the kitchen is your park:
In the garbage heap that she leaves
Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect
All the places you have trekked:
Does your long antenna whisk its
Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul,
Drowsing in our sugar bowl?
Or, abandonment most utter,
Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes
Swimming in the baby's prunes?
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink
Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy?
We are brothers, thou and I.
In the midnight, like yourself,
I explore the pantry shelf!
[Illustration:
_In the midnight, like yourself,_
_I explore the pantry shelf!_]
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE
TENDER-HEARTED
II
Rockabye, insect, lie low in thy den,
Father's a cockroach, mother's a hen.
And Betty, the maid, doesn't clean up the sink,
So you shall have plenty to eat and to drink.
Hushabye, insect, behind the mince pies:
If the cook sees you her anger will rise;
She'll scatter poison, as bitter as gall,
Death to poor cockroach, hen, baby and all.
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE
TENDER-HEARTED
III
There was a gay henroach, and what do you think,
She lived in a cranny behind the old sink--
Eggshells and grease were the chief of her diet;
She went for a stroll when the kitchen was quiet.
She walked in the pantry and sampled the bread,
But when she came back her old husband was dead:
Long had he lived, for his legs they were fast,
But the kitchen maid caught him and squashed him at last.
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE
TENDER-HEARTED
IV
I knew a black beetle, who lived down a drain,
And friendly he was though his manners were plain;
When I took a bath he would come up the pipe,
And together we'd wash and together we'd wipe.
Though mother would sometimes protest with a sneer
That my choice of a tub-mate was wanton and queer,
A nicer companion I never have seen:
He bathed every night, so he must have been clean.
Whenever he heard the tap splash in the tub
He'd dash up the drain-pipe and wait for a scrub,
And often, so fond of ablution was he,
I'd find him there floating and waiting for me.
But nurse has done something that seems a great shame:
She saw him there, waiting, prepared for a game:
She turned on the hot and she scalded him sore
And he'll never come bathing with me any more.
THE TWINS
Con was a thorn to brother Pro--
On Pro we often sicked him:
Whatever Pro would claim to know
Old Con would contradict him!
[Illustration: _The Twins_]
A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL
(_Extremely technical_)
I'd like to have you meet my wife!
I simply cannot keep from hinting
I've never seen, in all my life,
So fine a specimen of printing.
Her type is not some =bold-face= font,
Set solid. Nay! And I will say out
That no typographer could want
To see a better balanced layout.
A nice proportion of white space
There is for brown eyes to look large in,
And not a feature in her face
Comes anywhere too near the margin.
Locked up with all her sweet display
Her form will never pi. She's like a
Corrected proof marked _stet, O. K._--
And yet she loves me, fatface =Pica!=
She has a fine one-column head,
And like a comma curves each eyebrow--
Her forehead has an extra lead
Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.
Her nose, _italicized brevier_,
Too lovely to describe by penpoint;
Her mouth is set in _pearl_: her ear
And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.
Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis)
Make my pulse beat 14-em measure,
And such typography as this
Would make =De Vinne= scream with pleasure.
And so, of all typefounder chaps
Her father's best, in my opinion;
She is my NONPAREIL (IN CAPS)
And I (in lower case) her _minion_.
I hope you will not stand aloof
Because my metaphors are shoppy;
Of her devotion I've a proof--
I tell the urchin, _Follow Copy_!
THE POET ON THE HEARTH
When fire is kindled on the dogs,
But still the stubborn oak delays,
Small embers laid above the logs
Will draw them into sudden blaze.
Just so the minor poet's part:
(A greater he need not desire)
The charcoals of his burning heart
May light some Master into fire!
O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY
O praise me not the country--
The meadows green and cool,
The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool!
The city for my craving,
Her lordship and her slaving,
The hot stones of her paving
For me, a city fool!
O praise me not the leisure
Of gardened country seats,
The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats--
The city for my yearning,
My spending and my earning.
Her winding ways for learning,
Sing hey! the city streets!
O praise me not the country,
Her sycamores and bees,
I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees!
The city for my wooing,
My dreaming and my doing;
Her beauty for pursuing,
Her deathless mysteries.
O praise me not the country,
Her evenings full of stars,
Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars--
The city for my wonder,
Her glory and her blunder,
And O the haunting thunder
Of the Elevated cars!
[Illustration: Seascape]
A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD
(New York)
_Here Lyes the Body of_
_Iohn Jones the Son of_
_Iohn Jones Who Departed_
_This Life December the 13_
_1768 Aged 4 Years & 4 Months & 2 Days_
Here, where enormous shadows creep,
He casts his childish shadow too:
How small he seems, beneath the steep
Great walls; his tender days, so few,
Lovingly numbered, every one--
John Jones, John Jones's little son.
O sunlight on the Lightning's wings!
Yet though our buildings skyward climb
Our heartbreaks are but little things
In the equality of Time.
The sum of life, for all men's stones:
He was John Jones, son of John Jones.
THE MADONNA OF THE CURB
On the curb of a city pavement,
By the ash and garbage cans,
In the stench and rolling thunder
Of motor trucks and vans,
There sits my little lady,
With brave but troubled eyes,
And in her arms a baby
That cries and cries and cries.
She cannot be more than seven;
But years go fast in the slums,
And hard on the pains of winter
The pitiless summer comes.
The wail of sickly children
She knows; she understands
The pangs of puny bodies,
The clutch of small hot hands.
In the deadly blaze of August,
That turns men faint and mad,
She quiets the peevish urchins
By telling a dream she had--
A heaven with marble counters,
And ice, and a singing fan;
And a God in white, so friendly,
Just like the drug-store man.
Her ragged dress is dearer
Than the perfect robe of a queen!
Poor little lass, who knows not
The blessing of being clean.
And when you are giving millions
To Belgian, Pole and Serb,
Remember my pitiful lady--
Madonna of the Curb!
[Illustration:
_The wail of sickly children_
_She knows; she understands_
_The pangs of puny bodies,_
_The clutch of small hot hands._]
THE ISLAND
_A song for England?_
_Nay, what is a song for England?_
Our hearts go by green-cliffed Kinsale
Among the gulls' white wings,
Or where, on Kentish forelands pale
The lighthouse beacon swings:
Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide,
Come in on Suffolk foam--
The blood that will not be denied
Moves fast, and calls us home!
Our hearts now walk a secret round
On many a Cotswold hill,
For we are mixed of island ground,
The island draws us still:
Our hearts may pace a windy turn
Where Sussex downs are high,
Or watch the lights of London burn,
A bonfire in the sky!
What is the virtue of that soil
That flings her strength so wide?
Her ancient courage, patient toil,
Her stubborn wordless pride?
A little land, yet loved therein
As any land may be,
Rejoicing in her discipline,
The salt stress of the sea.
Our hearts shall walk a Sherwood track,
Our lips taste English rain,
We thrill to see the Union Jack
Across some deep-sea lane;
Though all the world be of rich cost
And marvellous with worth,
Yet if that island ground were lost
How empty were the earth!
_A song for England?_
_Lo, every word we speak's a song for England._
SUNDAY NIGHT
Two grave brown eyes, severely bent
Upon a memorandum book--
A sparkling face, on which are blent
A hopeful and a pensive look;
A pencil, purse, and book of checks
With stubs for varying amounts--
Elaine, the shrewdest of her sex,
Is busy balancing accounts.
Sedately, in the big armchair,
She, all engrossed, the audit scans--
Her pencil hovers here and there
The while she calculates and plans;
What's this? A faintly pensive frown
Upon her forehead gathers now--
Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--
Beget that shadow on her brow?
A murrain on the tradesman churl
Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!
Just then--a baby's cry--my girl
Arose and swiftly left the room.
Then in her purse by stratagem
I thrust some bills of small amounts--
She'll think she had forgotten them,
And smile again at her accounts!
[Illustration:
_Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--_
_Beget that shadow on her brow?_]
ENGLAND, JULY 1913
To Rupert Brooke
O England, England ... that July
How placidly the days went by!
Two years ago (how long it seems)
In that dear England of my dreams
I loved and smoked and laughed amain
And rode to Cambridge in the rain.
A careless godlike life was there!
To spin the roads with _Shotover_,
To dream while punting on the Cam,
To lie, and never give a damn
For anything but comradeship
And books to read and ale to sip,
And shandygaff at every inn
When _The Gorilla_ rode to Lynn!
O world of wheel and pipe and oar
In those old days before the War.
O poignant echoes of that time!
I hear the Oxford towers chime,
The throbbing of those mellow bells
And all the sweet old English smells--
The Deben water, quick with salt,
The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt;
The Suffolk villages, serene
With lads at cricket on the green,
And Wytham strawberries, so ripe,
And _Murray's Mixture_ in my pipe!
In those dear days, in those dear days,
All pleasant lay the country ways;
The echoes of our stalwart mirth
Went echoing wide around the earth
And in an endless bliss of sun
We lay and watched the river run.
And you by Cam and I by Isis
Were happy with our own devices.
Ah, can we ever know again
Such friends as were those chosen men,
Such men to drink, to bike, to smoke with,
To worship with, or lie and joke with?
Never again, my lads, we'll see
The life we led at twenty-three.
Never again, perhaps, shall I
Go flashing bravely down the High
To see, in that transcendent hour,
The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.
Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall
Those endless afternoons, and all
Your Cambridge--which I loved as one
Who was her grandson, not her son.
O ripples where the river slacks
In greening eddies round the "backs";
Where men have dreamed such gallant things
Under the old stone bridge at _King's_.
Or leaned to feed the silver swans
By the tennis meads at _John's_.
O Granta's water, cold and fresh,
Kissing the warm and eager flesh
Under the willow's breathing stir--
The bathing pool at _Grantchester_....
What words can tell, what words can praise
The burly savor of those days!
Dear singing lad, those days are dead
And gone for aye your golden head;
And many other well-loved men
Will never dine in Hall again.
I too have lived remembered hours
In Cambridge; heard the summer showers
Make music on old _Heffer's_ pane
While I was reading Pepys or Taine.
Through _Trumpington_ and _Grantchester_
I used to roll on _Shotover_;
At _Hauxton Bridge_ my lamp would light
And sleep in _Royston_ for the night.
Or to _Five Miles from Anywhere_
I used to scull; and sit and swear
While wasps attacked my bread and jam
Those summer evenings on the Cam.
(O crispy English cottage-loaves
Baked in ovens, not in stoves!
O white unsalted English butter
O satisfaction none can utter!)...
To think that while those joys I knew
In Cambridge, I did not know you.
July, 1915.
CASUALTY
A well-sharp'd pencil leads one on to write:
When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed;
The primed occasion puts the deed in sight:
Who steals a book who knows not how to read?
Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep?
A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife?
Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep
Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.
A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL
O noble gracious English tongue
Whose fibers we so sadly twist,
For caitiff measures he has sung
Have pardon on the journalist.
For mumbled meter, leaden pun,
For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word,
Have pity on this graceless one--
Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord!
The metaphors and tropes depart,
Our little clippings fade and bleach:
There is no virtue and no art
Save in straightforward Saxon speech.
Yet not in ignorance or spite,
Nor with Thy noble past forgot
We sinned: indeed we had to write
To keep a fire beneath the pot.
Then grant that in the coming time,
With inky hand and polished sleeve,
In lucid prose or honest rhyme
Some worthy task we may achieve--
Some pinnacled and marbled phrase,
Some lyric, breaking like the sea,
That we may learn, not hoping praise,
The gift of Thy simplicity.
PRELIMINARY INSTRUCTIONS FOR A
FUNERAL SERVICE: BEING A
POEM IN FOUR STANZAS
Say this poor fool misfeatured all his days,
And could not mend his ways;
And say he trod
Most heavily upon the corns of God.
But also say that in his clabbered brain
There was the essential pain--
The idiot's vow
To tell his troubled Truth, no matter how.
Unhappy fool, you say, with pitiful air:
Who was he, then, and where?
Ah, you divine
He lives in your heart, as he lives in mine.
[Illustration: To bed]