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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Chimneysmoke
+
+Author: Christopher Morley
+
+Illustrator: Thomas Fogarty
+
+Release Date: October 26, 2011 [EBook #37852]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIMNEYSMOKE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Steven Brown and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+  Transcribers Notes:
+
+  Bold faced text shown as: =abcde=
+  Italics text shown as: _abcde_
+  Unusual fonts shown as: _abcde_
+
+  [Illustrations:] have been moved to end of poem in all cases.
+
+  There are two instances of Greek in the text - π has been used.
+
+
+  *   *   *   *   *
+
+
+
+
+  [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.)
+
+
+  Where once he measured camphor, glycerine,
+  Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars,
+  And all the oils and essences so keen
+  That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars--
+  Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile,
+  The master pharmacist of joy and pain
+  Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile
+  And laughter that dissolves in tears again.
+
+  O brave apothecary! You who knew
+  What dark and acid doses life prefers
+  And yet with friendly face resolved to brew
+  These sparkling potions for your customers--
+  In each prescription your Physician writ
+  You poured your rich compassion and your wit!
+
+
+
+
+  FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET (1816)
+
+  "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."
+
+
+  I knew a scientist, an engineer,
+  Student of tensile strengths and calculus,
+  A man who loved a cantilever truss
+  And always wore a pencil on his ear.
+  My friend believed that poets all were queer,
+  And literary folk ridiculous;
+  But one night, when it chanced that three of us
+  Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.
+
+  Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!
+  His eager mind reached for it and took hold.
+  Ten years are by: I see him now and then,
+  And at alumni dinners, if cajoled,
+  He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:--
+  _Much have I travelled in the realms of gold._
+
+
+
+
+  TWO O'CLOCK
+
+
+  Night after night goes by: and clocks still chime
+    And stars are changing patterns in the dark,
+  And watches tick, and over-puissant Time
+    Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark,
+  The trains that roar and rattle in the night,
+    The very cats that prowl, all quiet find
+  And leave the darkness empty, silent quite:
+    Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.
+
+  So all things end: and what is left at last?
+    Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor,
+  A memory of easy days gone past,
+    A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore--
+  And in the darkened room I lean to know
+    How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
+
+
+
+
+  THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER
+
+
+  Ah very sweet! If news should come to you
+  Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve,
+  That the great Manager had made me leave
+  To travel on some territory new;
+  And that, whatever homeward winds there blew,
+  I could not touch your hand again, nor heave
+  The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave
+  Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....
+
+  Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind
+  Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could
+  Remember rightly, and forget aright?
+  Remember just your lad, uncouthly good,
+  Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?
+  Could you remember him as always kind?
+
+
+
+
+  THE WEDDED LOVER
+
+
+  I read in our old journals of the days
+  When our first love was April-sweet and new,
+  How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew
+  Despite the adverse time; and our amaze
+  At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise
+  That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue
+  The heaven arched us in, and all we knew
+  Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.
+
+  They said by now the path would be more steep,
+  The sunsets paler and less mild the air;
+  Rightly we heeded not: it was not true.
+  We will not tell the secret--let it keep.
+  I know not how I thought those days so fair
+  These being so much fairer, spent with you.
+
+
+
+
+  TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST
+
+
+  When we were parted, sweet, and darkness came,
+  I used to strike a match, and hold the flame
+  Before your picture and would breathless mark
+  The answering glimmer of the tiny spark
+  That brought to life the magic of your eyes,
+  Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.
+
+  Holding that mimic torch before your shrine
+  I used to light your eyes and make them mine;
+  Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky,
+  Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply;
+  Summon your lips from far across the sea
+  Bidding them live a twilight hour with me.
+
+  Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom,
+  Lo--you were with me in the darkened room.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARLES AND MARY
+
+  (December 27, 1834.)
+
+
+  Lamb died just before I left town, and Mr. Ryle of
+the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me....
+He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the
+event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so
+that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his
+beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.
+
+  --Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
+
+
+  I hear their voices still: the stammering one
+  Struggling with some absurdity of jest;
+  Her quiet words that puzzle and protest
+  Against the latest outrage of his fun.
+  So wise, so simple--has she never guessed
+  That through his laughter, love and terror run?
+  For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed,
+  He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.
+
+  Through all those years it was his task to keep
+  Her gentle heart serenely mystified.
+  If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride--
+  When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead,
+  She innocently looked. "I always said
+  That Charles is really handsome when asleep."
+
+
+
+
+  TO A GRANDMOTHER
+
+
+  At six o'clock in the evening,
+    The time for lullabies,
+  My son lay on my mother's lap
+    With sleepy, sleepy eyes!
+  (_O drowsy little manny boy,_
+   _With sleepy, sleepy eyes!_)
+
+  I heard her sing, and rock him,
+    And the creak of the swaying chair,
+  And the old dear cadence of the words
+    Came softly down the stair.
+
+  And all the years had vanished,
+    All folly, greed, and stain--
+  The old, old song, the creaking chair,
+    The dearest arms again!
+  (_O lucky little manny boy,_
+   _To feel those arms again!_)
+
+
+
+
+  DIARISTS
+
+
+  They catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now,
+    Is Actual, amid the fugitive;
+  Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how
+    We snare this flying life, and make it live.
+  So to their little pictures, and they sieve
+    Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough,
+  The afterglow that summer sunsets give,
+    The razor concave of a great ship's bow.
+
+  O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!
+    Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.
+  No glittering ink can make this written word
+    Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage
+  And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred
+    The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
+
+
+
+
+ THE LAST SONNET
+
+
+  Suppose one knew that never more might one
+  Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now
+  These fourteen lines were all he could allow
+  To say his message, be forever done;
+  How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,
+  Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase
+  The windy trees, the beauty of his days,
+  Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.
+  How bitter then would be regret and pang
+  For former rhymes he dallied to refine,
+  For every verse that was not crystalline....
+  And if belike this last one feebly rang,
+  Honor and pride would cast it to the floor
+  Facing the judge with what was done before.
+
+
+
+
+  THE SAVAGE
+
+
+  Civilization causes me
+  Alternate fits: disgust and glee.
+
+  Buried in piles of glass and stone
+  My private spirit moves alone,
+
+  Where every day from eight to six
+  I keep alive by hasty tricks.
+
+  But I am simple in my soul;
+  My mind is sullen to control.
+
+  At dusk I smell the scent of earth,
+  And I am dumb--too glad for mirth.
+
+  I know the savors night can give,
+  And then, and then, I live, I live!
+
+  No man is wholly pure and free,
+  For that is not his destiny,
+
+  But though I bend, I will not break:
+  And still be savage, for Truth's sake.
+
+  God damns the easily convinced
+  (Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
+
+
+
+
+  ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH
+
+
+  I stood on the pavement
+    Where I could admire
+  Behind the brown chapel
+    The cream and gold spire.
+
+  Above, gilded Lightning
+    Swam high on his ball--
+  I saw the noon shadow
+    The church of St. Paul.
+
+  And was there a meaning?
+    (My fancy would run),
+  Saint Paul in the shadow,
+    Saint Frank in the sun!
+
+
+
+
+  ADVICE TO A CITY
+
+
+  O city, cage your poets! Hem them in
+    And roof them over from the April sky--
+  Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din,
+    And drown their voices with your thunder cry.
+
+  Forbid their free feet on the windy hills,
+    And harness them to daily ruts of stone--
+  (In florists' windows lock the daffodils)
+    And never, never let them be alone!
+
+  For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd,
+    And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit,
+  And granted silence, thought and solitude
+    They (_absit omen!_) might make Song of it.
+
+  So cage them in, and stand about them thick,
+    And keep them busy with their daily bread;
+  And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quick
+    To interrupt them ere the word be said....
+
+  For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage,
+    With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth,
+  Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page,
+    The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!
+
+
+
+
+  THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY
+
+
+  No Malory of old romance,
+    No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,
+  Can equal in rich circumstance
+    This telephone directory.
+
+  No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,
+    No legend of proud knights and dames,
+  Can fill me with such bright surmise
+    As this great book of numbered names!
+
+  How many hearts and lives unknown,
+    Rare damsels pining for a squire,
+  Are waiting for the telephone
+    To ring, and call them to the wire.
+
+  Some wait to hear a loved voice say
+    The news they will rejoice to know
+  At Rome 2637 J
+    Or Marathon 1450!
+
+  And some, perhaps, are stung with fear
+    And answer with reluctant tread:
+  The message they expect to hear
+    Means life or death or daily bread.
+
+  A million hearts here wait our call,
+    All naked to our distant speech--
+  I wish that I could ring them all
+    And have some welcome news for each!
+
+
+
+
+  GREEN ESCAPE
+
+
+  At three o'clock in the afternoon
+    On a hot September day,
+  I began to dream of a highland stream
+    And a frostbit russet tree;
+  Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship
+    (White canvas wet with spray)
+  And the swirling green and milk-foam clean
+    Along her canted lee.
+
+  I heard the quick staccato click
+    Of the typist's pounding keys,
+  And I had to brood of a wind more rude
+    Than that by a motor fanned--
+  And I lay inert in a flannel shirt
+    To watch the rhyming seas
+  Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl
+    On a beach of sun-blanched sand.
+
+  There is no desk shall tame my lust
+    For hills and windy skies;
+  My secret hope of the sea's blue slope
+    No clerkly task shall dull;
+
+  And though I print no echoed hint
+    Of adventures I devise,
+  My eyes still pine for the comely line
+    Of an outbound vessel's hull.
+
+  When I elope with an autumn day
+    And make my green escape,
+  I'll leave my pen to tamer men
+    Who have more docile souls;
+  For forest aisles and office files
+    Have a very different shape,
+  And it's hard to woo the ocean blue
+    In a row of pigeon holes!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _My eyes still pine for the comely line_
+  _Of an outbound vessel's hull._]
+
+
+
+
+  VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS
+
+  (_Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute_
+  _the name of his favorite suburb_)
+
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  How low, how close, they lean!
+  They jostle one another
+  And do their best to please--
+  Indeed, they are so neighborly
+  That in the twilight green
+  One reaches out to pick them
+  Behind the poplar trees.
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  And one particular
+  Bright planet (which is Vesper)
+  Most lucid and serene,
+  Is waiting by the railway bridge,
+  The Good Commuter's Star,
+  The Star of Wise Men coming home
+  On time, at 6:15!
+
+
+
+
+  THE ICE WAGON
+
+
+  I'd like to split the sky that roofs us down,
+  Break through the crystal lid of upper air,
+  And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.
+  I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness
+  Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.
+
+  I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,
+  Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,
+  The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,
+  And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air
+  Down every alley where the children gasp.
+
+  And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons--
+  Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,--
+  And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.
+  In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,
+  Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,
+  With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;
+  Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,
+  And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.
+
+  And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,
+  A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.
+  My friends and I would chop and splinter open
+  The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,
+  And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,
+  And some would stagger home with it in baskets,
+  And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,
+  Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,
+  Gulping as they slipped down unexpected--
+  Laughing to perceive that secret numbness
+  Amid their small hot persons!
+
+  At every stop would be at least one urchin
+  Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses
+  And hold it up against their silky noses--
+  And they would start, and then decide they liked it.
+
+  Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town
+  Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,
+  Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!
+  Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,
+  A lucky few up sitting with the driver,
+  All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.
+
+  And by the time the wagons were all empty
+  Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,
+  Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.
+  But how we would recall those eager faces,
+  Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,
+  The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.
+  Then we would know that arms were made for aching--
+
+  I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
+
+
+
+
+  AT A MOVIE THEATRE
+
+
+  How well he spoke who coined the phrase
+    _The picture palace!_ Aye, in sooth
+  A palace, where men's weary days
+    Are crowned with kingliness of youth.
+
+  Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,
+    Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,
+  We watch a wand of brightness limn
+    The old heroics of the heart.
+
+  Romance again hath us in thrall
+    And Love is sweet and always true,
+  And in the darkness of the hall
+    Hands clasp--as they were meant to do.
+
+  Remote from peevish joys and ills
+    Our souls, _pro tem_, are purged and free:
+  We see the sun on western hills,
+    The crumbling tumult of the sea.
+
+  We are the blond that maidens crave,
+    Well balanced at a dozen banks;
+  By sleight of hand we haste to save
+    A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!
+
+  Alas, perhaps our instinct feels
+    Life is not all it might have been,
+  So we applaud fantastic reels
+    Of shadow, cast upon a screen!
+
+
+
+
+  SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE
+
+
+  I
+
+  Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread,
+    All apprehensive of some hideous sight:
+  Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,
+    Forgot his gas and let it burn all night--
+  The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,
+    She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,
+  And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,
+    Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.
+
+  No League of Nations scheme can make her gay--
+    She knows the rank duplicity of man;
+  Some folks expect clean towels every day,
+    They'll get away with murder if they can!
+  She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)
+  _Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!_
+
+
+  II
+
+
+  Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:
+  They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,
+  They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,
+  They're out all morning, when a body cleans.
+  A man ain't so secretive, never cares
+  What kind of private papers he leaves lay,
+  So I can get a line on his affairs
+  And dope out whether he is likely pay.
+  But women! Say, they surely get my bug!
+  They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,
+  Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,
+  And fry marshmallows when their callers come.
+  They always are behindhand with their rents--
+  Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _A man ain't so secretive, never cares_
+  _What kind of private papers he leaves lay_--]
+
+
+
+
+  THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)
+
+
+  About these roaring cylinders
+    Where leaping words and paper mate,
+  A sudden glory moves and stirs--
+    An inky cataract in spate!
+
+  What voice for falsehood or for truth,
+    What hearts attentive to be stirred--
+  How dimly understood, in sooth,
+    The power of the printed word!
+
+  These flashing webs and cogs of steel
+    Have shaken empires, routed kings,
+  Yet never turn too fast to feel
+    The tragedies of humble things.
+
+  O words, be strict in honesty,
+    Be just and simple and serene;
+  O rhymes, sing true, or you will be
+    Unworthy of this great machine!
+
+
+
+
+  DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?
+
+
+  Across the court there rises the back wall
+  Of the Magna Carta Apartments.
+  The other evening the people in the apartment opposite
+  Had forgotten to draw their curtains.
+  I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,
+  The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,
+  The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands
+  Outstretched in busy gesture.
+
+  It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;
+  So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.
+  They were four: an elderly couple,
+  A young man, and a girl--with lovely shoulders
+  Mellow in the glow of the lamp.
+  They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.
+
+  At last the older two left the room.
+  The boy and girl looked at each other....
+  Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.
+
+  Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!
+  A little later I went down the street to the movies,
+  And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.
+  And as I watched them I felt like God--
+  Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
+
+
+
+
+  RAPID TRANSIT
+
+  (To Stephen Vincent Benét.)
+
+
+  Climbing is easy and swift on Parnassus!
+  Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;
+  There found a book of verse by a young poet.
+  Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!
+  Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting--
+  Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,
+  Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,
+  Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,
+  Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,
+  Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.
+  I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;
+  Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.
+  Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood--
+  Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,
+  Trying my trinkets with those of his finding--
+  _And as I left the bookshop_
+  _My pipe was still warm in my hand._
+
+
+
+
+  CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW
+
+
+  Colin, worshipping some frail,
+    By self-deprecation sways her:
+  Calls himself unworthy male,
+    Hardly even fit to praise her.
+
+  But this tactic insincere
+    In the upshot greatly grieves him
+  When he finds the lovely dear
+    Quite implicitly believes him.
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS
+
+  _Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses_
+
+
+  If sometimes, in a random phrase
+    (For variation in my ditty),
+  I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise
+    And seem to intimate them pretty--
+
+  It is because I do not dare
+    With too unmixed reiteration
+  To sing the browner eyes and hair
+    That are my true intoxication.
+
+  Know, then, that I consider brown
+    For ladies' eyes, the only color;
+  And deem all other orbs in town
+    (Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.
+
+  I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;
+    While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,
+  How insubstantial was their cheer--
+    It was of yours that I was thinking!
+
+
+
+
+  PEACE
+
+
+  What is this Peace
+    That statesmen sign?
+  How I have sought
+    To make it mine.
+
+  Where groaning cities
+    Clang and glow
+  I hunted, hunted,
+    Peace to know.
+
+  And still I saw
+    Where I passed by
+  Discarded hearts,--
+    Heard children cry.
+
+  By willowed waters
+    Brimmed with rain
+  I thought to capture
+    Peace again.
+
+  I sat me down
+    My Peace to hoard,
+  But Beauty pricked me
+    With a sword.
+
+  For in the stillness
+    Something stirred,
+  And I was crippled
+    For a word.
+
+  There is no peace
+    A man can find;
+  The anguish sits
+    His heart behind.
+
+  The eyes he loves,
+    The perfect breast,
+  Too exquisite
+    To give him rest.
+
+  This is his curse
+    Since brain began.
+  His penalty
+    For being man.
+
+    May, 1919
+
+
+
+
+  SONG, IN DEPRECATION
+  OF PULCHRITUDE
+
+
+
+  Beauty (so the poets say),
+    Thou art joy and solace great;
+  Long ago, and far away
+    Thou art safe to contemplate,
+
+  Beauty. But when now and here,
+    Visible and close to touch,
+  All too perilously near,
+    Thou tormentest us too much!
+
+  In a picture, in a song,
+    In a novel's conjured scenes,
+  Beauty, that's where you belong,
+    Where perspective intervenes.
+
+  But, my dear, in rosy fact
+    Your appeal I have to shirk--
+  You disturb me, and distract
+    My attention from my work!
+
+
+
+
+  MOUNTED POLICE
+
+
+  Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,
+    Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;
+  He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"
+    And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.
+
+  Inured to every mood of fool and crank,
+    Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:
+  The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,
+    A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.
+
+  O knight commander of our city stress,
+    Little you know how picturesque you are!
+  We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:
+    "_Say, that's a helva place to park your car!_"
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Mounted Police._]
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT
+  HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY
+
+
+  Why did not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?
+  It would have been delight to me
+  If _natus ante_ 1603.
+
+  My stuff would not be soon forgotten
+  If I could write like Harry Wotton.
+
+  I wish that I could wield the pen
+  Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.
+
+  I would not fear the ticking clock
+  If I were Browne of Tavistock.
+
+  For blithe conceits I would not worry
+  If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.
+
+  I wish (I hope I am not silly?)
+  That I could juggle words like Lyly.
+
+  I envy many a lyric champion,
+  I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.
+
+  I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,
+  I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.
+
+  My wits are dull as an old Barlow--
+  I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.
+
+  In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,
+  Or some one else of that same kidney.
+
+  For if I were, my lady's looks
+    And all my lyric special pleading
+  Would be in all the future books,
+    And called, at college, _Required Reading_.
+
+
+
+
+  THE INTRUDER
+
+
+  As I sat, to sift my dreaming
+    To the meet and needed word,
+  Came a merry Interruption
+    With insistence to be heard.
+
+  Smiling stood a maid beside me,
+    Half alluring and half shy;
+  Soft the white hint of her bosom--
+    Escapade was in her eye.
+
+  "I must not be so invaded,"
+    (In an anger then I cried)--
+  "Can't you see that I am busy?
+    Tempting creature, stay outside!
+
+  "Pearly rascal, I am writing:
+    I am now composing verse--
+  Fie on antic invitation:
+    Wanton, vanish--fly--disperse!
+
+  "Baggage, in my godlike moment
+    What have I to do with thee?"
+  And she laughed as she departed--
+    "I am Poetry," said she.
+
+
+
+
+  TIT FOR TAT
+
+
+  I often pass a gracious tree
+    Whose name I can't identify,
+  But still I bow, in courtesy
+    It waves a bough, in kind reply.
+
+  I do not know your name, O tree
+    (Are you a hemlock or a pine?)
+  But why should that embarrass me?
+    Quite probably you don't know mine.
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Courtesy_]
+
+
+
+
+  SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
+
+
+  I'm glad our house is a little house,
+    Not too tall nor too wide:
+  I'm glad the hovering butterflies
+    Feel free to come inside.
+
+  Our little house is a friendly house.
+    It is not shy or vain;
+  It gossips with the talking trees,
+    And makes friends with the rain.
+
+  And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green
+    Against our whited walls,
+  And in the phlox, the courteous bees
+    Are paying duty calls.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PLUMPUPPETS
+
+
+  When little heads weary have gone to their bed,
+  When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,
+  Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest
+  The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,_
+  _The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;_
+  _They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--_
+    _The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+  The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:
+  They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;
+  They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,
+  And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
+
+  No matter what troubles have bothered the day,
+  Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;
+  Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt--
+  Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,
+  The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;
+  They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--
+  The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+
+  [Illustration: _The Plumpuppets_]
+
+
+
+
+  DANDY DANDELION
+
+
+  When Dandy Dandelion wakes
+    And combs his yellow hair,
+  The ant his cup of dewdrop takes
+    And sets his bed to air;
+  The worm hides in a quilt of dirt
+    To keep the thrush away,
+  The beetle dons his pansy shirt--
+    They know that it is day!
+
+  And caterpillars haste to milk
+    The cowslips in the grass;
+  The spider, in his web of silk,
+    Looks out for flies that pass.
+  These humble people leap from bed,
+    They know the night is done:
+  When Dandy spreads his golden head
+    They think he is the sun!
+
+  Dear Dandy truly does not smell
+    As sweet as some bouquets;
+  No florist gathers him to sell,
+    He withers in a vase;
+  Yet in the grass he's emperor,
+    And lord of high renown;
+  And grateful little folk adore
+    His bright and shining crown.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HIGH CHAIR
+
+
+  Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
+  Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
+  _He'd_ drink it. You want to be big and fat
+  Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)
+  Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
+  But you must finish first. Come, drink it up--
+  (_Splash_!) Oh, you _must_ keep both hands on the cup.
+  All gone? Now for the prunes....
+                               And so it goes.
+
+  This is the battlefield that parents know,
+  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]
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
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+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type"
+ content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" />
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chimneysmoke,
+ by Christopher Morley.</title>
+
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+
+<body>
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Chimneysmoke
+
+Author: Christopher Morley
+
+Illustrator: Thomas Fogarty
+
+Release Date: October 26, 2011 [EBook #37852]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIMNEYSMOKE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Steven Brown and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+</pre>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="cover"></a>[cover]</span></p>
+
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover Page" /></div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_i"></a>[i]</span></p>
+<h1><i>Chimneysmoke</i></h1>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus001.jpg" alt="Chimneysmoke" /></div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><i>By Christopher
+Morley</i></div>
+<div style="margin-left: 4em;"><br />
+<small>CHIMNEYSMOKE<br />
+HIDE AND SEEK<br />
+THE ROCKING HORSE<br />
+SONGS FOR A LITTLE HOUSE<br />
+MINCE PIE
+</small></div>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<br />
+<i>New York: George H. Doran Company</i></div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus004.jpg" alt="This hearth was built for thy delight" /></div>
+<table style="width: 90%; text-align: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td style="width: 50%;"></td>
+<td align="left" valign="middle">
+<p class="caption"><i>This
+hearth was built for thy delight,</i><br />
+<i>For thee the logs were sawn,</i><br />
+<i>For thee the largest chair, at night,</i><br />
+<i>Is to the chimney drawn.</i><br />
+<br />
+<i>For thee, dear lass, the match was lit,</i><br />
+<i>To yield the ruddy blaze&#8212;</i><br />
+<i>May Jack Frost give us joy of it</i><br />
+<i>For many, many days.</i><br />
+</p>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p>
+<h1><i><big>Chimneysmoke</big></i></h1>
+<h3><i>by</i></h3>
+<h2><i>Christopher Morley</i></h2>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus005.jpg" alt="Fireside Chair" />
+</div>
+<h4><i>Illustrated by</i></h4>
+<h4> <i>Thomas Fogarty</i></h4>
+<table style="width: 40%; text-align: center; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td> <i>Garden City, New York</i></td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<table style="width: 30%; text-align: center; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td style="width: 15%;"><big><i>Doubleday,
+Page &amp; Co.</i></big><br />
+<small><i>1927</i></small>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_v"></a>[v]</span></p>
+<p> COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1919, 1920, 1921<br />
+BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE &amp; COMPANY.<br />
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN<br />
+THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY<br />
+LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
+</p>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_vi"></a>[vi]</span></p>
+<table style="width: 35%; text-align: center; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td align="center"><i>"How can I turn from any
+fire</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>On any
+man's hearthstone?</i></span><br />
+<i>I know the wonder and desire</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>That went
+to build my own.</i>"</span><br />
+<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 2em;">&#8212;<span class="smcap">Rudyard Kipling</span>; "<i>The
+Fires</i>"
+</span></td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p>
+<h2><i>Author's Note</i></h2>
+<p>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 <i>Songs for a Little House</i>
+(1917),
+<i>The Rocking Horse</i> (1919) and <i>Hide and Seek</i>
+(1920). There is
+also one piece revived from the judicious obscurity of an early
+escapade,
+<i>The Eighth Sin</i>, 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.</p>
+<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Roslyn,
+Long Island</i>.</span></p>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_ix"></a>[ix]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus011.jpg" alt="Boat on Lake" /></div>
+<h2><a name="contents" id="contents"></a><i>Contents</i></h2>
+<table style="width: 90%; text-align: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td style="width: 75%;"></td>
+<td align="center">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_19">TO
+THE LITTLE HOUSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_19">19</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_20">A
+GRACE BEFORE WRITING</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_20">20</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_21">DEDICATION
+FOR A FIREPLACE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_21">21</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_22">TAKING
+TITLE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_22">22</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_25">THE
+SECRET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_25">25</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_26">ONLY
+A MATTER OF TIME</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_26">26</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_28">AT
+THE MERMAID CAFETERIA</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_28">28</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_29">OUR
+HOUSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_29">29</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_31">ON
+NAMING A HOUSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_31">31</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_32">A
+HALLOWE'EN MEMORY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_32">32</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_35">REFUSING
+YOU IMMORTALITY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_35">35</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_36">BAYBERRY
+CANDLES</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_36">36</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_37">SECRET
+LAUGHTER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_37">37</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_38">SIX
+WEEKS OLD</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_38">38</a>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_41">A
+CHARM</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_41">41</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_42">MY
+PIPE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_42">42</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_44">THE
+5:42</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_44">44</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_48">PETER
+PAN</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_48">48</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_49">IN
+HONOR OF TAFFY TOPAZ</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_49">49</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_50">THE
+CEDAR CHEST</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_50">50</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_51">READING
+ALOUD</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_51">51</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_52">ANIMAL
+CRACKERS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_52">52</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_55">THE
+MILKMAN</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_55">55</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_56">LIGHT
+VERSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_56">56</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_57">THE
+FURNACE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_57">57</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_58">WASHING
+THE DISHES</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_58">58</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_61">THE
+CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_61">61</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_62">ELEGY
+WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_62">62</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_66">THE
+OLD SWIMMER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_66">66</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_70">THE
+MOON-SHEEP</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_70">70</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_71">SMELLS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_71">71</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_72">SMELLS
+(JUNIOR)</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_72">72</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_75">MAR
+QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_75">75</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_76">THE
+FAT LITTLE PURSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_76">76</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_80">THE
+REFLECTION</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_80">80</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_82">THE
+BALLOON PEDDLER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_82">82</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_86">LINES
+FOR AN ECCENTRIC'S BOOK PLATE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_86">86</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_89">TO A
+POST-OFFICE INKWELL</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_89">89</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_90">THE
+CRIB</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_90">90</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_94">THE
+POET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_94">94</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_97">TO A
+DISCARDED MIRROR</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_97">97</a>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_98">TO A
+CHILD</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_98">98</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_100">TO A
+VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_100">100</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_104">TO
+AN OLD-FASHIONED POET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_104">104</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_105">BURNING
+LEAVES IN SPRING</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_105">105</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_106">BURNING
+LEAVES, NOVEMBER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_106">106</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_107">A
+VALENTINE GAME</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_107">107</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_108">FOR
+A BIRTHDAY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_108">108</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_111">KEATS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_111">111</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_113">TO
+H. F. M., A SONNET IN SUNLIGHT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_113">113</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_114">QUICKENING</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_114">114</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_115">AT A
+WINDOW SILL</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_115">115</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_116">THE
+RIVER OF LIGHT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_116">116</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_118">OF
+HER GLORIOUS MADNESS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_118">118</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_119">IN
+AN AUCTION ROOM</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_119">119</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_120">EPITAPH
+FOR A POET WHO WROTE NO POETRY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_120">120</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_121">SONNET
+BY A GEOMETER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_121">121</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_122">TO A
+VAUDEVILLE TERRIER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_122">122</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_125">TO
+AN OLD FRIEND</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_125">125</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_126">TO A
+BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_126">126</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_129">THOUGHTS
+WHILE PACKING A TRUNK</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_129">129</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_130">STREETS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_130">130</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_131">TO
+THE ONLY BEGETTER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_131">131</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_133">PEDOMETER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_133">133</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_134">HOSTAGES</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_134">134</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_137">ARS
+DURA</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_137">137</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_138">O.
+HENRY&#8212;APOTHECARY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_138">138</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_139">FOR
+THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_139">139</a>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_140">TWO
+O'CLOCK</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_140">140</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_141">THE
+COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_141">141</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_142">THE
+WEDDED LOVER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_142">142</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_143">TO
+YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_143">143</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_144">CHARLES
+AND MARY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_144">144</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_145">TO A
+GRANDMOTHER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_145">145</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_146">DIARISTS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_146">146</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_147">THE
+LAST SONNET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_147">147</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_148">THE
+SAVAGE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_148">148</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_149">ST.
+PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_149">149</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_150">ADVICE
+TO A CITY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_150">150</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_151">THE
+TELEPHONE DIRECTORY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_151">151</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_153">GREEN
+ESCAPE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_153">153</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_157">VESPER
+SONG FOR COMMUTERS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_157">157</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_158">THE
+ICE WAGON</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_158">158</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_161">AT A
+MOVIE THEATRE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_161">161</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_163">SONNETS
+IN A LODGING HOUSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_163">163</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_167">THE
+MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_167">167</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_168">DO
+YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_168">168</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_170">RAPID
+TRANSIT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_170">170</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_171">CAUGHT
+IN THE UNDERTOW</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_171">171</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_172">TO
+HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_172">172</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_173">PEACE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_173">173</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_175">SONG,
+IN DEPRECATION OF PULCHRITUDE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_175">175</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_176">MOUNTED
+POLICE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_176">176</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_179">TO
+HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_179">179</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_181">THE
+INTRUDER</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_181">181</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_182">TIT
+FOR TAT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_182">182</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_185">SONG
+FOR A LITTLE HOUSE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_185">185</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_186">THE
+PLUMPUPPETS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_186">186</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_190">DANDY
+DANDELION</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_190">190</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_192">THE
+HIGH CHAIR</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_192">192</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_193">LOVE
+AT FIRST SIGHT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_193">193</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_197">AUTUMN
+COLORS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_197">197</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_198">THE
+LAST CRICKET</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_198">198</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_199">TO
+LOUISE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_199">199</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_203">CHRISTMAS
+EVE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_203">203</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_204">EPITAPH
+ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_204">204</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_205">THE
+MUSIC BOX</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_205">205</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_209">TO
+LUATH</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_209">209</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_212">THOUGHTS
+ON REACHING LAND</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_212">212</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_214">A
+SYMPOSIUM</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_214">214</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_218">TO A
+TELEPHONE OPERATOR WHO HAS A BAD COLD</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_218">218</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_219">NURSERY
+RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_219">219</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_227">THE
+TWINS</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_227">227</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_228">A
+PRINTER'S MADRIGAL</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_228">228</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_230">THE
+POET ON THE HEARTH</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_230">230</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_231">O
+PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_231">231</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_235">A
+STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_235">235</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_236">THE
+MADONNA OF THE CURB</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_236">236</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_240">THE
+ISLAND</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_240">240</a>
+</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_242">SUNDAY
+NIGHT</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_242">242</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_246">ENGLAND,
+JULY, 1913</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_246">246</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_250">CASUALTY</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_250">250</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_251">A
+GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_251">251</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_253">PRELIMINARY
+INSTRUCTIONS FOR A FUNERAL SERVICE</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_253">253</a></td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_xv"></a>[xv]</span></p>
+<table style="width: 90%; text-align: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td style="width: 45%;">
+<h2><a name="illustrations" id="illustrations"></a><i>Illustrations</i></h2>
+</td>
+<td align="right">
+<div class="figcover"><img src="images/illus017.jpg" alt="Girl on Stool" /></div>
+</td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<table style="width: 90%; text-align: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary="" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2">
+<tbody>
+<tr>
+<td style="width: 75%;"></td>
+<td align="center">PAGE</td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_iii"><i>This
+hearth was built for thy delight</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_iii"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_23"><i>And
+by a friend's bright gift of wine,</i><br />
+<i>I dedicate this house of mine</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_23">23</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_33"><i>And
+of all man's felicities</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_33">33</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_39"><i>A
+little world he feels and sees:</i><br />
+<i>His mother's arms, his mother's knees</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_39">39</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_47"><i>The
+5:42</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_47">47</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_53"><i>And
+Daddy once said he would like to be me</i><br />
+<i>Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_53">53</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_59"><i>But
+heavy feeding complicates</i><br />
+<i>The task by soiling many plates</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_59">59</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_65"><i>How
+ill avail, on such a frosty night</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_65">65</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_69"><i>The
+old swimmer</i></a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_69">69</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_73"><i>But
+Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_73">73</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_79"><i>Perhaps
+it's a ragged child crying</i></a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_79">79</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_85"><i>The
+Balloon Peddler</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_85">85</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_87"><i>If
+you appreciate it more</i><br />
+<i>Than I&#8212;why don't return it!</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_87">87</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_93"><i>And
+then one night</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_93">93</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_95"><i>The
+human cadence and the subtle chime</i><br />
+<i>Of little laughters</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_95">95</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_103"><i>What
+years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_103">103</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_109"><i>A
+Birthday</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_109">109</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_123"><i>You
+must be rigid servant of your art!</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_123">123</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_127"><i>You
+came, and impudent and deuce-may-care</i><br />
+<i>Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire</i></a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_127">127</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_135"><i>Hostages</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_135">135</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_155"><i>My
+eyes still pine for the comely line</i><br />
+<i>Of an outbound vessel's hull</i></a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_155">155</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_165"><i>A
+man ain't so secretive, never cares</i><br />
+<i>What kind of private papers he leaves lay</i>&#8212;</a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_165">165</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_177"><i>Mounted
+Police</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_177">177</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_183"><i>Courtesy</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_183">183</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_189"><i>The
+Plumpuppets</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_189">189</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_195">... <i>It's
+hard to have to tell</i><br />
+<i>How unresponsive I have found her</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_195">195</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_201">... <i>When
+you see, this Great First Time,</i><br />
+<i>Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_201">201</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_207"><i>The
+music box</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_207">207</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_217"><i>Solugubrious</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_217">217</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_221"><i>In
+the midnight, like yourself,</i><br />
+<i>I explore the pantry shelf!</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_221">221</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_227"><i>The
+Twins</i></a>
+</td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_227">227</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_233"><i>O
+praise me not the country</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_233">233</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_239"><i>The
+wail of sickly children</i>&#8212;</a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_239">239</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td align="left"><a href="#pg_245"><i>Ah,
+does the butcher&#8212;heartless clown&#8212;</i><br />
+<i>Beget that shadow on her brow?</i></a></td>
+<td align="center"><a href="#pg_245">245</a></td>
+</tr>
+</tbody>
+</table>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_xvii"></a>[xvii]</span></p>
+<h1><i><big>Chimneysmoke</big></i></h1>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus019.jpg" alt="Girl by Gate" title="" height="408" width="306" /></div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_19"></a>[19]</span></p>
+<h1><big><i><b>Chimneysmoke</b></i></big></h1>
+<h3>TO THE LITTLE HOUSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<span class="dropcap">D</span><span class="smcap">ear</span>
+little house, dear shabby street,<br />
+Dear books and beds and food to eat!<br />
+How feeble words are to express<br />
+The facets of your tenderness.<br />
+<br />
+How white the sun comes through the pane!<br />
+In tinkling music drips the rain!<br />
+How burning bright the furnace glows!<br />
+What paths to shovel when it snows!<br />
+<br />
+O dearly loved Long Island trains!<br />
+O well remembered joys and pains....<br />
+How near the housetops Beauty leans<br />
+Along that little street in Queens!<br />
+<br />
+Let these poor rhymes abide for proof<br />
+Joy dwells beneath a humble roof;<br />
+Heaven is not built of country seats<br />
+But little queer suburban streets!<br />
+<br />
+March, 1917.</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_20"></a>[20]</span></p>
+<h3>A GRACE BEFORE WRITING</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">his</span>
+is a sacrament, I think!
+<div class="line_in_1"> Holding the bottle toward
+the light,</div>
+As blue as lupin gleams the ink;
+<div class="line_in_1">May Truth be with me as I
+write!</div>
+<br />
+That small dark cistern may afford
+<div class="line_in_1">Reunion with some vanished
+friend,&#8212;</div>
+And with this ink I have just poured
+<div class="line_in_1">May none but honest words
+be penned!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_21"></a>[21]</span></p>
+<h3>DEDICATION FOR A FIREPLACE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">his</span> hearth was
+built for thy delight,
+<div class="line_in_1">For thee the logs were sawn,</div>
+For thee the largest chair, at night,
+<div class="line_in_1">Is to the chimney drawn.</div>
+<br />
+For thee, dear lass, the match was lit
+<div class="line_in_1">To yield the ruddy blaze&#8212;</div>
+May Jack Frost give us joy of it
+<div class="line_in_1">For many, many days</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_22"></a>[22]</span></p>
+<h3>TAKING TITLE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">o</span>
+make this house my very own<br />
+Could not be done by law alone.<br />
+Though covenant and deed convey<br />
+Absolute fee, as lawyers say,<br />
+There are domestic rites beside<br />
+By which this house is sanctified.<br />
+<br />
+By kindled fire upon the hearth,<br />
+By planted pansies in the garth,<br />
+By food, and by the quiet rest<br />
+Of those brown eyes that I love best,<br />
+And by a friend's bright gift of wine,<br />
+I dedicate this house of mine.<br />
+<br />
+When all but I are soft abed<br />
+I trail about my quiet stead<br />
+A wreath of blue tobacco smoke<br />
+(A charm that evil never broke)<br />
+And bring my ritual to an end<br />
+By giving shelter to a friend.<br />
+<br />
+These done, O dwelling, you become<br />
+Not just a house, but truly Home!
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_23"></a>[23]</span></p>
+</div>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus025.jpg" alt="And by a friend's bright gift of wine,"/>
+<br />
+<p class="caption"><i>And by a friend's
+bright gift of wine,</i><br />
+<i>I dedicate this house of mine</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_25"></a>[25]</span></p>
+<h3>THE SECRET</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span>
+was the House of Quietness
+<div class="line_in_1">To which I came at dusk;</div>
+The garth was lit with roses
+<div class="line_in_1">And heavy with their musk.</div>
+<br />
+The tremulous tall poplar trees
+<div class="line_in_1">Stood whispering around,</div>
+The gentle flicker of their plumes
+<div class="line_in_1">More quiet than no sound.</div>
+<br />
+And as I wondered at the door
+<div class="line_in_1">What magic might be there,</div>
+The Lady of Sweet Silences
+<div class="line_in_1">Came softly down the stair.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_26"></a>[26]</span></p>
+<h3>ONLY A MATTER OF TIME</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">D</span><span class="smcap">own-slipping</span>
+Time,
+sweet, swift, and shallow stream,<br />
+Here, like a boulder, lies this afternoon<br />
+Across your eager flow. So you shall stay,<br />
+Deepened and dammed, to let me breathe and be.<br />
+Your troubled fluency, your running gleam<br />
+Shall pause, and circle idly, still and clear:<br />
+The while I lie and search your glassy pool<br />
+Where, gently coiling in their lazy round,<br />
+Unseparable minutes drift and swim,<br />
+Eddy and rise and brim. And I will see<br />
+How many crystal bubbles of slack Time<br />
+The mind can hold and cherish in one <i>Now</i>!<br />
+<br />
+Now, for one conscious vacancy of sense,<br />
+The stream is gathered in a deepening pond,<br />
+Not a mere moving mirror. Through the sharp<br />
+Correct reflection of the standing scene<br />
+The mind can dip, and cleanse itself with rest,<br />
+And see, slow spinning in the lucid gold,<br />
+Your liquid motes, imperishable Time.<br />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_27"></a>[27]</span></p>
+It cannot be. The runnel slips away:<br />
+The clear smooth downward sluice begins again,<br />
+More brightly slanting for that trembling pause,<br />
+Leaving the sense its conscious vague unease<br />
+As when a sonnet flashes on the mind,<br />
+Trembles and burns an instant, and is gone.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_28"></a>[28]</span></p>
+<h3>AT THE MERMAID CAFETERIA</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">ruth</span> is enough
+for
+prose:<br />
+Calmly it goes<br />
+To tell just what it knows.<br />
+<br />
+For verse, skill will suffice&#8212;<br />
+Delicate, nice<br />
+Casting of verbal dice.<br />
+<br />
+Poetry, men attain<br />
+By subtler pain<br />
+More flagrant in the brain&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+An honesty unfeigned,<br />
+A heart unchained,<br />
+A madness well restrained.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_29"></a>[29]</span></p>
+<h3>OUR HOUSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span> should be
+yours,
+if I could build<br />
+The quaint old dwelling I desire,<br />
+With books and pictures bravely filled<br />
+And chairs beside an open fire,<br />
+White-panelled rooms with candles lit&#8212;<br />
+I lie awake to think of it!<br />
+<br />
+A dial for the sunny hours,<br />
+A garden of old-fashioned flowers&#8212;<br />
+Say marigolds and lavender<br />
+And mignonette and fever-few,<br />
+And Judas-tree and maidenhair<br />
+And candytuft and thyme and rue&#8212;<br />
+All these for you to wander in.<br />
+<br />
+A Chinese carp (called <i>Mandarin</i>)<br />
+Waving a sluggish silver fin<br />
+Deep in the moat: so tame he comes<br />
+To lip your fingers offering crumbs.<br />
+Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,<br />
+White shutters, ivy green and thick,<br />
+And walls of ruddy Tudor brick<br />
+Grown mellow with the passing years.<br />
+<br />
+And windows with small leaded panes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_30"></a>[30]</span><br />
+Broad window-seats for when it rains;<br />
+A big blue bowl of pot pourri<br />
+And&#8212;yes, a Spanish chestnut tree<br />
+To coin the autumn's minted gold.<br />
+A summer house for drinking tea&#8212;<br />
+All these (just think!) for you and me.<br />
+<br />
+A staircase of the old black wood<br />
+Cut in the days of Robin Hood,<br />
+And banisters worn smooth as glass<br />
+Down which your hand will lightly pass;<br />
+A piano with pale yellow keys<br />
+For wistful twilight melodies,<br />
+And dusty bottles in a bin&#8212;<br />
+All these for you to revel in!<br />
+<br />
+But when? Ah well, until that time<br />
+We'll habit in this house of rhyme.<br />
+1912</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_31"></a>[31]</span></p>
+<h3>ON NAMING A HOUSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> I a
+householder
+became<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I had to give my house a
+name.</div>
+<br />
+I thought I'd call it "Poplar Trees,"<br />
+Or "Widdershins" or "Velvet Bees,"
+<div class="line_in_1">Or "Just Beneath a Star."</div>
+I thought of "House Where Plumbings Freeze,"<br />
+Or "As You Like it," "If You Please,"<br />
+Or "Nicotine" or "Bread and Cheese,"
+<div class="line_in_1">"Full Moon" or "Doors Ajar."</div>
+<br />
+But still I sought some subtle charm,<br />
+Some rune to guard my roof from harm
+<div class="line_in_1">And keep the devil far;</div>
+I thought of this, and I was saved!<br />
+I had my letter-heads engraved
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>The House Where
+Brown Eyes Are.</i></div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_32"></a>[32]</span></p>
+<h3>A HALLOWE'EN MEMORY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">D</span><span class="smcap">o</span> you remember,
+Heart's Desire,
+<div class="line_in_1">The night when Hallowe'en
+first came?</div>
+The newly dedicated fire,
+<div class="line_in_1">The hearth unsanctified by
+flame?</div>
+<br />
+How anxiously we swept the bricks
+<div class="line_in_1">(How tragic, were the
+draught not right!)</div>
+And then the blaze enwrapped the sticks
+<div class="line_in_1">And filled the room with
+dancing light.</div>
+<br />
+We could not speak, but only gaze,
+<div class="line_in_1">Nor half believe what we
+had seen&#8212;</div>
+<i>Our</i> home, <i>our</i> hearth, <i>our</i>
+golden blaze,
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>Our</i>
+cider mugs, <i>our</i> Hallowe'en!</div>
+<br />
+And then a thought occurred to me&#8212;
+<div class="line_in_1">We ran outside with sudden
+shout</div>
+And looked up at the roof, to see
+<div class="line_in_1">Our own dear smoke come
+drifting out.</div>
+<br />
+And of all man's felicities
+<div class="line_in_1">The very subtlest one, say
+I,</div>
+Is when, for the first time, he sees
+<div class="line_in_1">His hearthfire smoke
+against the sky.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_33"></a>[33]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus035.jpg" alt="And of all man's felicities" />
+<p class="caption"><i>And of all man's felicities</i><br />
+<i>The very subtlest one, say I,</i><br />
+<i>Is when, for the first time, he sees</i><br />
+<i>His hearthfire smoke against the sky.</i></p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_35"></a>[35]</span></p>
+<h3>REFUSING YOU IMMORTALITY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">f</span> I should tell,
+unstinted,
+<div class="line_in_1">Your beauty and your grace,</div>
+All future lads would whisper
+<div class="line_in_1">Traditions of your face;</div>
+If I made public tumult
+<div class="line_in_1">Your mirth, your queenly
+state,</div>
+Posterity would grumble
+<div class="line_in_1">That it was born too late.</div>
+<br />
+I will not frame your beauty
+<div class="line_in_1">In bright undying phrase,</div>
+Nor blaze it as a legend
+<div class="line_in_1">For unborn men to praise&#8212;</div>
+For why should future lovers
+<div class="line_in_1">Be saddened and depressed?</div>
+Deluded, let them fancy
+<div class="line_in_1">Their own girls loveliest!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_36"></a>[36]</span></p>
+<h3>BAYBERRY CANDLES</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">D</span><span class="smcap">ear</span> sweet, when
+dusk comes up the hill,
+<div class="line_in_1">The fire leaps high with
+golden prongs;</div>
+I place along the chimneysill
+<div class="line_in_1">The tiny candles of my
+songs.</div>
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">And though unsteadily they
+burn,
+<div class="line_in_1">As evening shades from gray
+to blue</div>
+Like candles they will surely learn
+<div class="line_in_1">To shine more clear, for
+love of you.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_37"></a>[37]</span></p>
+<h3>SECRET LAUGHTER</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">"I had a secret laughter."<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 5em;">&#8212;Walter de la Mare.</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">here</span> is a secret
+laughter
+<div class="line_in_1">That often comes to me,</div>
+And though I go about my work<br />
+As humble as can be,<br />
+There is no prince or prelate
+<div class="line_in_1">I envy&#8212;no, not one.</div>
+No evil can befall me&#8212;
+<div class="line_in_1">By God, I have a son!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_38"></a>[38]</span></p>
+<h3>SIX WEEKS OLD</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">e</span> is so small, he
+does not know<br />
+The summer sun, the winter snow;<br />
+The spring that ebbs and comes again,<br />
+All this is far beyond his ken.<br />
+<br />
+A little world he feels and sees:<br />
+His mother's arms, his mother's knees;<br />
+He hides his face against her breast,<br />
+And does not care to learn the rest.
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_39"></a>[39]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus041.jpg" alt="Babe in Arms" />
+<p class="caption">
+<i>A little world he feels and sees:</i><br />
+<i>His mother's arms, his mother's knees</i>&#8212;</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_41"></a>[41]</span></p>
+<h3>A CHARM</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">For Our New Fireplace,<br />
+To Stop Its Smoking
+<br />
+<br/></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap"> wood</span>, burn
+bright;
+O flame, be quick;<br />
+O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue&#8212;<br />
+My lady chose your every brick<br />
+And sets her dearest hopes on you!<br />
+<br />
+Logs cannot burn, nor tea be sweet,<br />
+Nor white bread turn to crispy toast,<br />
+Until the charm be made complete<br />
+By love, to lay the sooty ghost.<br />
+<br />
+And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,<br />
+Dear china and mahogany,<br />
+Draw close, for on the happy stairs<br />
+My brown-eyed girl comes down for tea!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_42"></a>[42]</span></p>
+<h3>MY PIPE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">y pipe</span> is old<br />
+And caked with soot;<br />
+My wife remarks:<br />
+"How can you put<br />
+That horrid relic,<br />
+So unclean,<br />
+Inside your mouth?<br />
+The nicotine<br />
+Is strong enough<br />
+To stupefy<br />
+A Swedish plumber."<br />
+I reply:<br />
+<br />
+"This is the kind<br />
+Of pipe I like:<br />
+I fill it full<br />
+Of Happy Strike,<br />
+Or Barking Cat<br />
+Or Cabman's Puff,<br />
+Or Brooklyn Bridge<br />
+(That potent stuff)<br />
+Or Chaste Embraces,<br />
+Knacker's Twist,<br />
+Old Honeycomb<br />
+Or Niggerfist.<br />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_43"></a>[43]</span></p>
+I clamp my teeth<br />
+Upon its stem&#8212;<br />
+It is my bliss,<br />
+My diadem.<br />
+Whatever Fate<br />
+May do to me,<br />
+This is my favorite<br />
+<div style="margin-left: 0.5em;">B</div>
+B B.<br />
+For this dear pipe<br />
+You feign to scorn<br />
+I smoked the night<br />
+The boy was born."
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_44"></a>[44]</span></p>
+<h3>THE 5:42</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">L</span><span class="smcap">ilac</span>, violet, and
+rose<br />
+Ardently the city glows;<br />
+Sunset glory, purely sweet,<br />
+Gilds the dreaming byway-street,<br />
+And, above the Avenue,<br />
+Winter dusk is deepening blue.<br />
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_2"> (Then, across Long Island
+meadows,<br />
+Darker, darker, grow the shadows:<br />
+Patience, little waiting lass!<br />
+Laggard minutes slowly pass;<br />
+Patience, laughs the yellow fire:<br />
+Homeward bound is heart's desire!)
+</div>
+<br />
+Hark, adown the canyon street<br />
+Flows the merry tide of feet;<br />
+High the golden buildings loom<br />
+Blazing in the purple gloom;<br />
+All the town is set with stars,<br />
+<i>Homeward</i> chant the Broadway cars!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_46"></a>[46]</span></p>
+<div style="margin-left: 4em;">All down Thirty-second
+Street<br />
+<i>Homeward, Homeward</i>, say the feet!<br />
+Tramping men, uncouth to view,<br />
+Footsore, weary, thrill anew;<br />
+Gone the ringing telephones,<br />
+Blessed nightfall now atones,<br />
+Casting brightness on the snow<br />
+Golden the train windows go.<br />
+<br />
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">Then (how long it seems) at
+last<br />
+All the way is overpast.<br />
+Heart that beats your muffled drum,<br />
+Lo, your venturer is come!<br />
+Wide the door! Leap high, O fire!<br />
+Home at length is heart's desire!<br />
+Gone is weariness and fret,<br />
+At the sill warm lips are met.<br />
+Once again may be renewed<br />
+The conjoined beatitude.<br />
+<br />
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_47"></a>[47]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus047.jpg" alt="The 5:42" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The 5:42</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_48"></a>[48]</span></p>
+<h3>PETER PAN</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2">"The boy for whom Barrie
+wrote Peter Pan&#8212;the original of
+Peter Pan&#8212;has died in battle."</div>
+<div style="margin-left: 20em;">&#8212;New York Times.<br />
+<br />
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">nd</span> Peter Pan is
+dead? Not so!<br />
+When mothers turn the lights down low<br />
+And tuck their little sons in bed,<br />
+They know that Peter is not dead....<br />
+<br />
+That little rounded blanket-hill;<br />
+Those prayer-time eyes, so deep and still&#8212;<br />
+However wise and great a man<br />
+He grows, he still is Peter Pan.<br />
+<br />
+And mothers' ways are often queer:<br />
+They pause in doorways, just to hear<br />
+A tiny breathing; think a prayer;<br />
+And then go tiptoe down the stair.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_49"></a>[49]</span></p>
+<h3>IN HONOR OF TAFFY TOPAZ</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">affy</span>, the
+topaz-colored cat,<br />
+Thinks now of this and now of that,<br />
+But chiefly of his meals.<br />
+Asparagus, and cream, and fish,<br />
+Are objects of his Freudian wish;<br />
+What you don't give, he steals.<br />
+<br />
+His gallant heart is strongly stirred<br />
+By clink of plate or flight of bird,<br />
+He has a plumy tail;<br />
+At night he treads on stealthy pad<br />
+As merry as Sir Galahad<br />
+A-seeking of the Grail.<br />
+<br />
+His amiable amber eyes<br />
+Are very friendly, very wise;<br />
+Like Buddha, grave and fat,<br />
+He sits, regardless of applause,<br />
+And thinking, as he kneads his paws,<br />
+What fun to be a cat!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_50"></a>[50]</span></p>
+<h3>THE CEDAR CHEST</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">er</span> mind is like
+her
+cedar chest<br />
+Wherein in quietness do rest<br />
+The wistful dreamings of her heart<br />
+In fragrant folds all laid apart.<br />
+<br />
+There, put away in sprigs of rhyme<br />
+Until her life's full blossom-time,<br />
+Flutter (like tremulous little birds)<br />
+Her small and sweet maternal words.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_51"></a>[51]</span></p>
+<h3>READING ALOUD</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">nce</span> we read
+Tennyson aloud<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In our great fireside chair;</div>
+Between the lines, my lips could touch<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her April-scented hair.</div>
+<br />
+How very fond I was, to think<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The printed poems fair,</div>
+When close within my arms I held<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A living lyric there!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_52"></a>[52]</span></p>
+<h3>ANIMAL CRACKERS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">nimal</span> crackers,
+and
+cocoa to drink,<br />
+That is the finest of suppers, I think;<br />
+When I'm grown up and can have what I please<br />
+I think I shall always insist upon these.<br />
+<br />
+What do <i>you</i> choose when you're offered a treat?<br />
+When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"<br />
+Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?<br />
+It's cocoa and animals that <i>I</i> love most!<br />
+<br />
+The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know:<br />
+The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,<br />
+And there in the twilight, how jolly to see<br />
+The cocoa and animals waiting for me.<br />
+<br />
+Daddy and Mother dine later in state,<br />
+With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;<br />
+But they don't have nearly as much fun as I<br />
+Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;<br />
+And Daddy once said, he would like to be me<br />
+Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_53"></a>[53]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus055.jpg" alt="Animal Crackers" />
+<p style="padding-left: 50px;"><br />
+<br />
+</p>
+<p class="caption"><i>And Daddy once said he would like to be me</i><br />
+<i>Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!</i>
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_55"></a>[55]</span></p>
+<h3>THE MILKMAN</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">E</span><span class="smcap">arly</span> in the
+morning, when the dawn is on the roofs,<br />
+You hear his wheels come rolling, you hear his horse's hoofs;<br />
+You hear the bottles clinking, and then he drives away:<br />
+You yawn in bed, turn over, and begin another day!<br />
+<br />
+The old-time dairy maids are dear to every poet's heart&#8212;<br />
+I'd rather be the dairy <i>man</i> and drive a little cart,<br />
+And bustle round the village in the early morning blue,<br />
+And hang my reins upon a hook, as I've seen Casey do.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_56"></a>[56]</span></p>
+<h3>LIGHT VERSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> night the gas
+lamps light our street,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Electric bulbs our homes;</div>
+The gas is billed in cubic feet,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Electric light in ohms.</div>
+<br />
+But one illumination still<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Is brighter far, and
+sweeter;</div>
+It is not figured in a bill,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Nor measured by a meter.</div>
+<br />
+More bright than lights that money buys,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">More pleasing to discerners,</div>
+The shining lamps of Helen's eyes,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Those lovely double burners!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_57"></a>[57]</span></p>
+<h3>THE FURNACE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> night I opened<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The furnace door:</div>
+The warm glow brightened<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The cellar floor.</div>
+<br />
+The fire that sparkled<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Blue and red,</div>
+Kept small toes cosy<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In their bed.</div>
+<br />
+As up the stair<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">So late I stole,</div>
+I said my prayer:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>Thank God for coal!</i></div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_58"></a>[58]</span></p>
+<h3>WASHING THE DISHES</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> we on simple
+rations sup<br />
+How easy is the washing up!<br />
+But heavy feeding complicates<br />
+The task by soiling many plates.<br />
+<br />
+And though I grant that I have prayed<br />
+That we might find a serving-maid,<br />
+I'd scullion all my days, I think,<br />
+To see Her smile across the sink!<br />
+<br />
+I wash, She wipes. In water hot<br />
+I souse each dish and pan and pot;<br />
+While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,<br />
+And rubs himself against my legs.<br />
+<br />
+The man who never in his life<br />
+Has washed the dishes with his wife<br />
+Or polished up the silver plate&#8212;<br />
+He still is largely celibate.<br />
+<br />
+One warning: there is certain ware<br />
+That must be handled with all care:<br />
+The Lord Himself will give you up<br />
+If you should drop a willow cup!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_59"></a>[59]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus061.jpg" alt="Washing Dishes" />
+<p class="caption"><i>But heavy feeding complicates</i><br />
+<i>The task by soiling many plates.</i><br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_61"></a>[61]</span></p>
+<h3>THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">s</span> I went by the
+church to-day<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"> I heard the organ cry;</div>
+And goodly folk were on their knees,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">But I went striding by.</div>
+<br />
+My minster hath a roof more vast:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My aisles are oak trees
+high;</div>
+My altar-cloth is on the hills,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My organ is the sky.</div>
+<br />
+I see my rood upon the clouds,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The winds, my chanted choir;</div>
+My crystal windows, heaven-glazed,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Are stained with sunset
+fire.</div>
+<br />
+The stars, the thunder, and the rain,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">White sands and purple seas&#8212;</div>
+These are His pulpit and His pew,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"> My God of Unbent Knees!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_62"></a>[62]</span></p>
+<h3>ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> furnace tolls
+the knell of falling steam,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The coal supply is
+virtually done,</div>
+And at this price, indeed it does not seem<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">As though we could afford
+another ton.</div>
+<br />
+Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The radiators lose their
+temperature:</div>
+How ill avail, on such a frosty night,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The "short and simple
+flannels of the poor."</div>
+<br />
+Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The rude forefathers of the
+omelet sleep,</div>
+No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">We cannot cook again till
+coal is cheap.</div>
+<br />
+Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Revivify the failing
+pressure-gauge?</div>
+Chop up the grand piano if you must,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And burn the East Aurora
+parrot-cage!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_63"></a>[63]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">Full many a can of purest
+kerosene<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The dark unfathomed tanks
+of Standard Oil</div>
+Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To bring my morning coffee
+to a boil.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_65"></a>[65]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus065.jpg" alt="Frosty Night" />
+<p class="caption"><i>How ill avail, on such a frosty night</i>....
+<br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_66"></a>[66]</span></p>
+<h3>THE OLD SWIMMER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> often</span> wander on
+the beach<br />
+Where once, so brown of limb,<br />
+The biting air, the roaring surf<br />
+Summoned me to swim.<br />
+<br />
+I see my old abundant youth<br />
+Where combers lean and spill,<br />
+And though I taste the foam no more<br />
+Other swimmers will.<br />
+<br />
+Oh, good exultant strength to meet<br />
+The arching wall of green,<br />
+To break the crystal, swirl, emerge<br />
+Dripping, taut, and clean.<br />
+<br />
+To climb the moving hilly blue,<br />
+To dive in ecstasy<br />
+And feel the salty chill embrace<br />
+Arm and rib and knee.<br />
+<br />
+What brave and vanished laughter then<br />
+And tingling thighs to run,<br/>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_67"></a>[67]</span>
+What warm and comfortable
+sands<br />
+Dreaming in the sun.<br />
+<br />
+The crumbling water spreads in snow,<br />
+The surf is hissing still,<br />
+And though I kiss the salt no more<br />
+Other swimmers will.
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_69"></a>[69]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus069.jpg" alt="The Old Swimmer" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The Old Swimmer</i>
+<br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_70"></a>[70]</span></p>
+<h3>THE MOON-SHEEP</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> moon seems
+like
+a docile sheep,<br />
+She pastures while all people sleep;<br />
+But sometimes, when she goes astray,<br />
+She wanders all alone by day.<br />
+<br />
+Up in the clear blue morning air<br />
+We are surprised to see her there,<br />
+Grazing in her woolly white,<br />
+Waiting the return of night.<br />
+<br />
+When dusk lets down the meadow bars<br />
+She greets again her lambs, the stars!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_71"></a>[71]</span></p>
+<h3>SMELLS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hy</span> is it that the
+poets tell<br />
+So little of the sense of smell?<br />
+These are the odors I love well:<br />
+<br />
+The smell of coffee freshly ground;<br />
+Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;<br />
+Or onions fried and deeply browned.<br />
+<br />
+The fragrance of a fumy pipe;<br />
+The smell of apples, newly ripe;<br />
+And printers' ink on leaden type.<br />
+<br />
+Woods by moonlight in September<br />
+Breathe most sweet; and I remember<br />
+Many a smoky camp-fire ember.<br />
+<br />
+Camphor, turpentine, and tea,<br />
+The balsam of a Christmas tree,<br />
+These are whiffs of gramarye ...<br />
+<i>A ship smells best of all to me!</i>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_72"></a>[72]</span></p>
+<h3>SMELLS (JUNIOR)</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">y</span> Daddy smells
+like
+tobacco and books,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Mother, like lavender and
+listerine;</div>
+Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Nannie smells starchy and
+soapy and clean.</div>
+<br />
+Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(When he's been out in the
+rain he smells most);</div>
+But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all&#8212;
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_1">She smells exactly like hot
+buttered toast!</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_73"></a>[73]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus075.jpg" alt="Katie the Cook" />
+<p class="caption"><i>But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all</i>&#8212;</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_75"></a>[75]</span></p>
+<h3>MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> like</span> the Chinese
+laundryman:<br />
+He smokes a pipe that bubbles,<br />
+And seems, as far as I can tell,<br />
+A man with but few troubles.<br />
+He has much to do, no doubt,<br />
+But also much to think about.<br />
+<br />
+Most men (for instance I myself)<br />
+Are spending, at all times,<br />
+All our hard-earned quarters,<br />
+Our nickels and our dimes:<br />
+With Mar Quong it's the other way&#8212;<br />
+He takes in small change every day.<br />
+<br />
+Next time you call for collars<br />
+In his steamy little shop,<br />
+Observe how tight his pigtail<br />
+Is coiled and piled on top.<br />
+But late at night he lets it hang<br />
+And thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_76"></a>[76]</span></p>
+<h3>THE FAT LITTLE PURSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">n</span> Saturdays,
+after
+the baby<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Is bathed, fed, and
+sleeping serene,</div>
+His mother, as quickly as may be,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Arranges the household
+routine.</div>
+She rapidly makes herself pretty<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And leaves the young limb
+with his nurse,</div>
+Then gaily she starts for the city,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And with her the fat little
+purse.</div>
+<br />
+She trips through the crowd at the station,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To the rendezvous spot
+where we meet,</div>
+And keeping her eyes from temptation,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She avoids the most windowy
+street!</div>
+She is off for the Weekly Adventure;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To her comrade for better
+and worse</div>
+She says, "Never mind, when you've spent your<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Last bit, here's the fat
+little purse."</div>
+<br />
+Apart, in her thrifty exchequer,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She has hidden what must
+not be spent:</div>
+Enough for the butcher and baker,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Katie's wages, and milkman,
+and rent;</div>
+But the rest of her brave
+little treasure<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She is gleeful and prompt
+to disburse&#8212;</div>
+What a richness of innocent pleasure<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Can come from her fat
+little purse!</div></div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_77"></a>[77]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">But either by giving or buying,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The little purse does not
+stay fat&#8212;</div>
+Perhaps it's a ragged child crying,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Perhaps it's a "pert little
+hat."</div>
+And the bonny brown eyes that were brightened<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By pleasures so quaint and
+diverse,</div>
+Look up at me, wistful and frightened,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To see such a thin little
+purse.</div>
+<br />
+The wisest of all financiering<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Is that which is done by
+our wives:</div>
+By some little known profiteering<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They add twos and twos and
+make fives;</div>
+And, husband, if you would be learning<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The secret of thrift, it is
+terse:</div>
+Invest the great part of your earning<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In her little, fat little
+purse.</div>
+</div>
+<div class="figcover">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_79"></a>[79]</span></p>
+<img src="images/illus079.jpg" alt="crying child" />
+<p class="caption"><i>Perhaps it's a ragged child crying</i><br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_80"></a>[80]</span></p>
+<h3>THE REFLECTION<br />
+(To N. B. D.)
+</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> have</span> not heard
+her
+voice, nor seen her face,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Nor touched her hand;</div>
+And yet some echo of her woman's grace<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I understand.</div>
+<br />
+I have no picture of her lovelihood,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her smile, her tint;</div>
+But that she is both beautiful and good<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I have true hint.</div>
+<br />
+In all that my friend thinks and says, I see<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her mirror true;</div>
+His thought of her is gentle; she must be<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All gentle too.</div>
+<br />
+In all his grief or laughter, work or play,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Each mood and whim,</div>
+How brave and tender, day by common day,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She speaks through him!</div>
+<br />
+Therefore I say I know her, be her face&gt;<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_81"></a>[81]</span><br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Or dark or fair&#8212;</div>
+For when he shows his heart's most secret place<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I see her there!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_82"></a>[82]</span></p>
+<h3>THE BALLOON PEDDLER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">ho</span> is the man on
+Chestnut street<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With colored toy balloons?</div>
+I see him with his airy freight<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On sunny afternoons&#8212;</div>
+A peddler of such lovely goods!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The heart leaps to behold</div>
+His mass of bubbles, red and green<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And blue and pink and gold.</div>
+<br />
+For sure that noble peddler man<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Hath antic merchandise:</div>
+His toys that float and swim in air<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Attract my eager eyes.</div>
+Perhaps he is a changeling prince<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Bewitched through magic
+moons</div>
+To tempt us solemn busy folk<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With meaningless balloons.</div>
+<br />
+Beware, oh, valiant merchantman,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Tread cautious on the pave!</div>
+Lest some day come some realist,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Some haggard soul and grave,</div>
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">A puritan efficientist<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_83"></a>[83]</span><br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who deems thy toys a sin&#8212;</div>
+He'll stalk thee madly from behind<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And prick them with a pin!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_85"></a>[85]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus085.jpg" alt="Balloon Peddlar" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The Balloon Peddler</i>
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_86"></a>[86]</span></p>
+<h3>LINES FOR AN ECCENTRIC'S BOOK PLATE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">o</span> use my books
+all
+friends are bid:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My shelves are open for 'em;</div>
+And in each one, as Grolier did,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I write <i>Et
+Amicorum</i>.</div>
+<br />
+All lovely things in truth belong<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To him who best employs
+them;</div>
+The house, the picture and the song<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Are his who most enjoys
+them.</div>
+<br />
+Perhaps this book holds precious lore,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And you may best discern it.</div>
+If you appreciate it more<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Than I&#8212;why don't return it!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_87"></a>[87]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus089.jpg" alt="Library" />
+<p class="caption"><i>If you appreciate it more</i> <i>Than
+I&#8212;why don't return it!</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_89"></a>[89]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A POST-OFFICE INKWELL</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ow</span> many humble
+hearts have dipped<br />
+In you, and scrawled their manuscript!<br />
+Have shared their secrets, told their cares,<br />
+Their curious and quaint affairs!<br />
+<br />
+Your pool of ink, your scratchy pen,<br />
+Have moved the lives of unborn men,<br />
+And watched young people, breathing hard,<br />
+Put Heaven on a postal card.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_90"></a>[90]</span></p>
+<h3>THE CRIB</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> sought</span>
+immortality<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Here and there&#8212;</div>
+I sent my rockets<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Into the air:</div>
+I gave my name<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A hostage to ink;</div>
+I dined a critic<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And bought him drink.</div>
+<br />
+I spurned the weariness<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of the flesh;</div>
+Denied fatigue<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And began afresh&#8212;</div>
+If men knew all,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">How they would laugh!</div>
+I even planned<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My epitaph....</div>
+<br />
+And then one night<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">When the dusk was thin</div>
+I heard the nursery<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Rites begin:</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_91"></a>[91]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">I heard the tender<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Soothings said</div>
+Over a crib, and<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A small sweet head.</div>
+<br />
+Then in a flash<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">It came to me</div>
+That there was my<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Immortality!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_93"></a>[93]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus093.jpg" alt="Nursery" />
+<p class="caption"><i>And then one night</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>When the dusk was
+thin</i></span><br />
+<i>I heard the nursery</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"> <i>Rites begin&#8212;</i></span>
+<br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_94"></a>[94]</span></p>
+<h3>THE POET</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> barren music
+of
+a word or phrase,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The futile arts of syllable
+and stress,</div>
+He sought. The poetry of common days<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">He did not guess.</div>
+<br />
+The simplest, sweetest rhythms life affords&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Unselfish love, true effort
+truly done,</div>
+The tender themes that underlie all words&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">He knew not one.</div>
+<br />
+The human cadence and the subtle chime<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of little laughters, home
+and child and wife,</div>
+He knew not. Artist merely in his rhyme,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Not in his life.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_95"></a>[95]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus097.jpg" alt="Children at play" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The human cadence and the subtle chime</i><br />
+<i>Of little laughters</i>&#8212;</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_97"></a>[97]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A DISCARDED MIRROR</h3>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus099.jpg" alt="Mirror Image" /></div>
+<p>[TN: Mirror Image Translated below.]
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">D</span><span class="smcap">ear</span> glass, before
+your silver pane<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My lady used to tend her
+hair;</div>
+And yet I search your disc in vain<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To find some shadow of her
+there.</div>
+<br />
+I thought your magic, deep and bright,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Might still some dear
+reflection hold:</div>
+Some glint of eyes or shoulders white,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Some flash of gowns she
+wore of old.</div>
+<br />
+Your polished round must still recall<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The laughing face, the neck
+like snow&#8212;</div>
+Remember, on your lonely wall,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That Helen used you long
+ago!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_98"></a>[98]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A CHILD</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> greatest poem
+ever known<br />
+Is one all poets have outgrown:<br />
+The poetry, innate, untold,<br />
+Of being only four years old.<br />
+<br />
+Still young enough to be a part<br />
+Of Nature's great impulsive heart,<br />
+Born comrade of bird, beast and tree<br />
+And unselfconscious as the bee&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+And yet with lovely reason skilled<br />
+Each day new paradise to build;<br />
+Elate explorer of each sense,<br />
+Without dismay, without pretence!<br />
+<br />
+In your unstained transparent eyes<br />
+There is no conscience, no surprise:<br />
+Life's queer conundrums you accept,<br />
+Your strange divinity still kept.<br />
+<br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_99"></a>[99]</span>
+Being, that now absorbs you, all<br />
+Harmonious, unit, integral,<br />
+Will shred into perplexing bits,&#8212;<br />
+Oh, contradictions of the wits!<br />
+<br />
+And Life, that sets all things in rhyme,<br />
+May make you poet, too, in time&#8212;<br />
+But there were days, O tender elf,<br />
+When you were Poetry itself!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_100"></a>[100]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A VERY YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">y</span> child, what
+painful vistas are before you!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">What years of youthful ills
+and pangs and bumps&#8212;</div>
+Indignities from aunts who "just adore" you,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And chicken-pox and
+measles, croup and mumps!</div>
+I don't wish to dismay you,&#8212;it's not fair to,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Promoted now from bassinet
+to crib,&#8212;</div>
+But, O my babe, what troubles flesh is heir to<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Since God first made so
+free with Adam's rib!</div>
+<br />
+Laboriously you will proceed with teething;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">When teeth are here, you'll
+meet the dentist's chair;</div>
+They'll teach you ways of walking, eating, breathing,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That stoves are hot, and
+how to brush your hair;</div>
+And so, my poor, undaunted little stripling,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By bruises, tears, and
+trousers you will grow,</div>
+And, borrowing a leaf from Mr. Kipling,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I'll wish you luck, and
+moralize you so:</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_101"></a>[101]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+If you can think up seven thousand methods<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of giving cooks and parents
+heart disease;</div>
+Can rifle pantry-shelves, and then give death odds<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By water, fire, and falling
+out of trees;</div>
+If you can fill your every boyish minute<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With sixty seconds' worth
+of mischief done,</div>
+Yours is the house and everything that's in it,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And, which is more, you'll
+be your father's son!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_103"></a>[103]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus103.jpg" alt="Grandparents and Grandson" />
+<p class="caption"><i>What years of youthful ills and pangs and bumps</i>&#8212;
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_104"></a>[104]</span></p>
+<h3>TO AN OLD-FASHIONED POET</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(Lizette Woodworth Reese)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">ost</span> tender poet,
+when the gods confer<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They save your gracile
+songs a nook apart,</div>
+And bless with Time's untainted lavender<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The ageless April of your
+singing heart.</div>
+<br />
+You, in an age unbridled, ne'er declined<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The appointed patience that
+the Muse decrees,</div>
+Until, deep in the flower of the mind<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The hovering words alight,
+like bridegroom bees.</div>
+<br />
+By casual praise or casual blame unstirred<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The placid gods grant gifts
+where they belong:</div>
+To you, who understand, the perfect word,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The recompensed necessities
+of song.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_105"></a>[105]</span></p>
+<h3>BURNING LEAVES IN SPRING</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> withered
+leaves
+are lost in flame<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Their eddying ghosts, a
+thin blue haze,</div>
+Blow through the thickets whence they came<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On amberlucent autumn days.</div>
+<br />
+The cool green woodland heart receives<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Their dim, dissolving,
+phantom breath;</div>
+In young hereditary leaves<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They see their happy
+life-in-death.</div>
+<br />
+My minutes perish as they glow&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Time burns my crazy bonfire
+through;</div>
+But ghosts of blackened hours still blow,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Eternal Beauty, back to you!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_106"></a>[106]</span></p>
+<h3>BURNING LEAVES, NOVEMBER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">hese</span> are folios
+of
+April,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All the library of spring,</div>
+Missals gilt and rubricated<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With the frost's illumining.</div>
+<br />
+Ruthless, we destroy these treasures,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Set the torch with hand
+profane&#8212;</div>
+Gone, like Alexandrian vellums,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Like the books of burnt
+Louvain!
+</div>
+Yet these classics are immortal:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">O collectors, have no fear,</div>
+For the publisher will issue<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">New editions every year.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_107"></a>[107]</span></p>
+<h3>A VALENTINE GAME</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(<i>For Two Players</i>)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">hey</span> have a game,
+thus played:<br />
+He says unto his maid<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>What are those
+shining things</i><br />
+<i>So brown, so golden brown?</i></div>
+And she, in doubt, replies<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>How now, what
+shining things</i><br />
+<i>So brown?</i></div>
+<br />
+But then, she coming near,<br />
+To see more clear,<br />
+He looks again, and cries<br />
+(All startled with surprise)<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>Sweet wretch, they
+are your eyes,</i><br />
+<i>So brown, so brown!</i></div>
+<br />
+The climax and the end consist<br />
+In kissing, and in being kissed.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_108"></a>[108]</span></p>
+<h3>FOR A BIRTHDAY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t two</span> years old
+the
+world he sees<br />
+Must seem expressly made to please!<br />
+Such new-found words and games to try,<br />
+Such sudden mirth, he knows not why,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">So many curiosities!</div>
+<br />
+As life about him, by degrees<br />
+Discloses all its pageantries<br />
+He watches with approval shy<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">At two years old.</div>
+<br />
+With wonders tired he takes his ease<br />
+At dusk, upon his mother's knees:<br />
+A little laugh, a little cry,<br />
+Put toys to bed, then "seepy-bye"&#8212;<br />
+The world is made of such as these<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"> At two years old.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_109"></a>[109]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus111.jpg" alt="Birthday" />
+<p class="caption"><i>A Birthday</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_111"></a>[111]</span></p>
+<h3>KEATS</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(1821-1921)</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> sometimes, on
+a
+moony night, I've passed<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A street-lamp, seen my
+doubled shadow flee,</div>
+I've noticed how much darker, clearer cast,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The full moon poured her
+silhouette of me.</div>
+<br />
+Just so of spirits. Beauty's silver light<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Limns with a ray more pure,
+and tenderer too:</div>
+Men's clumsy gestures, to unearthly sight,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Surpass the shapes they
+show by human view.</div>
+<br />
+On this brave world, where few such meteors fell,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her youngest son, to save
+us, Beauty flung.</div>
+He suffered and descended into hell&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And comforts yet the ardent
+and the young.</div>
+<br />
+Drunken of moonlight, dazed by draughts of sky,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Dizzy with stars, his
+mortal fever ran:</div>
+His utterance a moon-enchanted cry<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Not free from folly&#8212;for he
+too was man.</div>
+<br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_112"></a>[112]</span>
+And now and here, a hundred years away,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where topless towers shadow
+golden streets,</div>
+The young men sit, nooked in a cheap café,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Perfectly happy ... talking
+about Keats.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_113"></a>[113]</span></p>
+<h3>TO H. F. M.<br />
+<span class="smcap">a sonnet in sunlight</span></h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">his</span> is a day for
+sonnets: Oh how clear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Our splendid cliffs and
+summits lift the gaze&#8212;</div>
+If all the perfect moments of the year<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Were poured and gathered in
+one sudden blaze,<br />
+Then, then perhaps, in some endowered phrase</div>
+My flat strewn words would rise and come more near<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To tell of you. Your beauty
+and your praise</div>
+Would fall like sunlight on this paper here.<br />
+<br />
+Then I would build a sonnet that would stand<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Proud and perennial on this
+pale bright sky;</div>
+So tall, so steep, that it might stay the hand<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of Time, the dusty wrecker.
+He would sigh</div>
+To tear my strong words down. And he would say:<br />
+"That song he built for her, one summer day."
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_114"></a>[114]</span></p>
+<h3>QUICKENING</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">uch</span> little, puny
+things are words in rhyme:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Poor feeble loops and
+strokes as frail as hairs;</div>
+You see them printed here, and mark their chime,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And turn to your more
+durable affairs.<br />
+Yet on such petty tools the poet dares</div>
+To run his race with mortar, bricks and lime,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And draws his frail stick
+to the point, and stares</div>
+To aim his arrow at the heart of Time.<br />
+<br />
+Intangible, yet pressing, hemming in,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">This measured emptiness
+engulfs us all,</div>
+And yet he points his paper javelin<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And sees it eddy, waver,
+turn, and fall,</div>
+And feels, between delight and trouble torn,<br />
+The stirring of a sonnet still unborn.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_115"></a>[115]</span></p>
+<h3>AT A WINDOW SILL</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap"><i>T</i></span><span class="smcap"><i>o
+write</i></span>
+<i> a sonnet needs a quiet mind....</i><br />
+I paused and pondered, tried again. <i>To write....</i><br />
+Raising the sash, I breathed the winter night:<br />
+Papers and small hot room were left behind.<br />
+Against the gusty purple, ribbed and spined<br />
+With golden slots and vertebræ of light<br />
+Men's cages loomed. Down sliding from a height<br />
+An elevator winked as it declined.<br />
+<br />
+Coward! There is no quiet in the brain&#8212;<br />
+If pity burns it not, then beauty will:<br />
+Tinder it is for every blowing spark.<br />
+Uncertain whether this is bliss or pain<br />
+The unresting mind will gaze across the sill<br />
+From high apartment windows, in the dark.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_116"></a>[116]</span></p>
+<h3>THE RIVER OF LIGHT</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">I. Broadway, 103rd to 96th.</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">L</span><span class="smcap">ights</span> foam and
+bubble down the gentle grade:<br />
+Bright shine chop sueys and rôtisseries;<br />
+In pink translucence glowingly displayed<br />
+See camisole and stocking and chemise.<br />
+Delicatessen windows full of cheese&#8212;<br />
+Above, the chimes of church-bells toll and fade&#8212;<br />
+And then, from off some distant Palisade<br />
+That gluey savor on the Jersey breeze!<br />
+<br />
+The burning bulbs, in green and white and red,<br />
+Spell out a <i>Change of Program Sun., Wed., Fri.</i>,<br />
+A clicking taxi spins with ruby spark.<br />
+There is a sense of poising near the head<br />
+Of some great flume of brightness, flowing by<br />
+To pour in gathering torrent through the dark.
+</div>
+<p style="text-align: center;">II. Below 96th<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_117"></a>[117]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> current
+quickens, and in golden flow<br />
+Hurries its flotsam downward through the night&#8212;<br />
+Here are the rapids where the undertow<br />
+Whirls endless motors in a gleaming flight.<br />
+From blazing tributaries, left and right,<br />
+Influent streams of blue and amber grow.<br />
+Columbus Circle eddies: all below<br />
+Is pouring flame, a gorge of broken light.<br />
+<br />
+See how the burning river boils in spate,<br />
+Channeled by cliffs of insane jewelry,<br />
+Painting a rosy roof on cloudy air&#8212;<br />
+And just about ten minutes after eight,<br />
+Tossing a surf of color to the sky<br />
+It bursts in cataracts upon Times Square!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_118"></a>[118]</span></p>
+<h3>OF HER GLORIOUS MADNESS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> city's mad:
+through her prodigious veins<br />
+What errant, strange, eccentric humors thrill:<br />
+Day, when her cataracts of sunlight spill&#8212;<br />
+Night, golden-panelled with her window panes;<br />
+The toss of wind-blown skirts; and who can drill<br />
+Forever his fierce heart with checking reins?<br />
+Cruel and mad, my statisticians say&#8212;<br />
+Ah, but she raves in such a gallant way!<br />
+<br />
+Brave madness, built for beauty and the sun&#8212;<br />
+In such a town who can be sane? Not I.<br />
+Of clashing colors all her moods are spun&#8212;<br />
+A scarlet anger and a golden cry.<br />
+This frantic town where madcap mischiefs run<br />
+They ask to take the veil, and be a nun!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_119"></a>[119]</span></p>
+<h3>IN AN AUCTION ROOM</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(<i>Letter of John
+Keats to Fanny Browne, Anderson Galleries, March 15, 1920.</i>)</p>
+<p style="text-align: center;">To Dr. A. S. W. Rosenbach.</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap"><i>H</i>
+</span><span class="smcap"><i>ow</i></span><i>
+about this lot?</i>
+said the auctioneer;<br />
+<i>One hundred, may I say, just for a start?</i><br />
+Between the plum-red curtains, drawn apart,<br />
+A written sheet was held.... And strange to hear<br />
+(Dealer, would I were steadfast as thou art)<br />
+The cold quick bids. (<i>Against you in the rear!</i>)<br />
+The crimson salon, in a glow more clear<br />
+Burned bloodlike purple as the poet's heart.<br />
+<br />
+Song that outgrew the singer! Bitter Love<br />
+That broke the proud hot heart it held in thrall;<br />
+Poor script, where still those tragic passions move&#8212;<br />
+<i>Eight hundred bid: fair warning: the last call:</i><br />
+The soul of Adonais, like a star....<br />
+<i>Sold for eight hundred dollars&#8212;Doctor R.!</i>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_120"></a>[120]</span></p>
+<h3>EPITAPH FOR A POET WHO WROTE NO POETRY</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">"It is said that a poet has
+died young in the breast
+of the most stolid."&#8212;Robert Louis Stevenson.</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hat</span> was the
+service
+of this poet? He
+Who blinked the blinding dazzle-rays that run<br />
+Where life profiles its edges to the sun,<br />
+And still suspected much he could not see.<br />
+Clay-stopped, yet in his taciturnity<br />
+There lay the vein of glory, known to none;<br />
+And moods of secret smiling, only won<br />
+When peace and passion, time and sense, agree.<br />
+<br />
+Fighting the world he loved for chance to brood,<br />
+Ignorant when to embrace, when to avoid<br />
+His loves that held him in their vital clutch&#8212;<br />
+This was his service, his beatitude;<br />
+This was the inward trouble he enjoyed<br />
+Who knew so little, and who felt so much.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_121"></a>[121]</span></p>
+<h3>SONNET BY A GEOMETER</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">the
+circle</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">F</span><span class="smcap">ew</span> things are
+perfect: we bear Eden's scar;<br />
+Yet faulty man was godlike in design<br />
+That day when first, with stick and length of twine,<br />
+He drew me on the sand. Then what could mar<br />
+His joy in that obedient mystic line;<br />
+And then, computing with a zeal divine,<br />
+He called &#960; 3-point-14159<br />
+And knew my lovely circuit 2 &#960; r!<br />
+<br />
+A circle is a happy thing to be&#8212;<br />
+Think how the joyful perpendicular<br />
+Erected at the kiss of tangency<br />
+Must meet my central point, my avatar!<br />
+They talk of 14 points: yet only 3<br />
+Determine every circle: <b>Q. E. D.</b>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_122"></a>[122]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A VAUDEVILLE TERRIER SEEN ON A LEASH, IN THE PARK</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">hree</span> times a
+day&#8212;at
+two, at seven, at nine&#8212;<br />
+O terrier, you play your little part:<br />
+Absurd in coat and skirt you push a cart,<br />
+With inner anguish walk a tight-rope line.<br />
+Up there, before the hot and dazzling shine<br />
+You must be rigid servant of your art,<br />
+Nor watch those fluffy cats&#8212;your doggish heart<br />
+Might leap and then betray you with a whine!<br />
+<br />
+But sometimes, when you've faithfully rehearsed,<br />
+Your trainer takes you walking in the park,<br />
+Straining to sniff the grass, to chase a frog.<br />
+The leash is slipped, and then your joy will burst&#8212;<br />
+Adorable it is to run and bark,<br />
+To be&#8212;alas, how seldom&#8212;just a dog!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_123"></a>[123]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus125.jpg" alt="Terrier Begging" />
+<p class="caption"><i>You must be rigid servant of your art!</i>
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_125"></a>[125]</span></p>
+<h3>TO AN OLD FRIEND</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(For Lloyd Williams.)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> like</span> to dream of
+some established spot<br />
+Where you and I, old friend, an evening through<br />
+Under tobacco's fog, streaked gray and blue,<br />
+Might reconsider laughters unforgot.<br />
+Beside a hearth-glow, golden-clear and hot,<br />
+I'd hear you tell the oddities men do.<br />
+The clock would tick, and we would sit, we two&#8212;<br />
+Life holds such meetings for us, does it not?<br />
+<br />
+Happy are men when they have learned to prize<br />
+The sure unvarnished virtue of their friends,<br />
+The unchanged kindness of a well-known face:<br />
+On old fidelities our world depends,<br />
+And runs a simple course in honest wise,<br />
+Not a mere taxicab shot wild through space!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_126"></a>[126]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">U</span><span class="smcap">pstage</span> the great
+high-shafted beefy choir<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Squawked in 2000 watts of
+orange glare&#8212;<br />
+You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care</div>
+Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.<br />
+<br />
+Flung from the roof, spots red and yellow burned<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And followed you. The
+blatant brassy clang<br />
+Of instruments drowned out the words you sang,</div>
+But goldenly you capered, twirled and turned.<br />
+<br />
+Boyish and slender, child-limbed, quick and proud,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A sprite of irresistible
+disdain,<br />
+Fair as a jonquil in an April rain,</div>
+You seemed too sweet an imp for that dull crowd....<br />
+<br />
+And then, behind the scenes, I heard you say,<br />
+"<i>O Gawd, I got a hellish cold to-day!</i>"
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_127"></a>[127]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus129.jpg" alt="Dancer on Stage" />
+<p class="caption"><i>You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care</i><br />
+<i>Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_129"></a>[129]</span></p>
+<h3>THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> sonnet is a
+trunk, and you must pack<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With care, to ship frail
+baggage far away;<br />
+The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray;</div>
+Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack.<br />
+First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And in the chinks your
+adjectives you lay&#8212;<br />
+Your phrases, folded neatly as you may,</div>
+Stowing a syllable in every crack.<br />
+<br />
+Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The tender quatrain where
+your moral sings&#8212;</div>
+Be careful, though, lest as you close the lid<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">You crush and crumple all
+these fragile things.</div>
+Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key&#8212;<br />
+Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_130"></a>[130]</span></p>
+<h3>STREETS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> have</span> seen
+streets
+where strange enchantment broods:<br />
+Old ruddy houses where the morning shone<br />
+In seemly quiet on their tranquil moods,<br />
+Across the sills white curtains outward blown.<br />
+Their marble steps were scoured as white as bone<br />
+Where scrubbing housemaids toiled on wounded knee&#8212;<br />
+And yet, among all streets that I have known<br />
+These placid byways give least peace to me.<br />
+<br />
+In such a house, where green light shining through<br />
+(From some back garden) framed her silhouette<br />
+I saw a girl, heard music blithely sung.<br />
+She stood there laughing, in a dress of blue,<br />
+And as I went on, slowly, there I met<br />
+An old, old woman, who had once been young.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_131"></a>[131]</span></p>
+<h3>TO THE ONLY BEGETTER</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">i</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> have</span> no hope to
+make you live in rhyme<br />
+Or with your beauty to enrich the years&#8212;<br />
+Enough for me this now, this present time;<br />
+The greater claim for greater sonneteers.<br />
+But O how covetous I am of NOW&#8212;<br />
+Dear human minutes, marred by human pains&#8212;<br />
+I want to know your lips, your cheek, your brow,<br />
+And all the miracles your heart contains,<br />
+I wish to study all your changing face,<br />
+Your eyes, divinely hurt with tenderness;<br />
+I hope to win your dear unstinted grace<br />
+For these blunt rhymes and what they would express.<br />
+Then may you say, when others better prove:&#8212;<br />
+"<i>Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.</i>"
+</div>
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">ii</span></p>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_132"></a>[132]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> all my
+trivial
+rhymes are blotted out,<br />
+Vanished our days, so precious and so few,<br />
+If some should wonder what we were about<br />
+And what the little happenings we knew:<br />
+I wish that they might know how, night by night,<br />
+My pencil, heavy in the sleepy hours,<br />
+Sought vainly for some gracious way to write<br />
+How much this love is ours, and only ours.<br />
+How many evenings, as you drowsed to sleep,<br />
+I read to you by tawny candle-glow,<br />
+And watched you down the valley dim and deep<br />
+Where poppies and the April flowers grow.<br />
+Then knelt beside your pillow with a prayer,<br />
+And loved the breath of pansies in your hair.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_133"></a>[133]</span></p>
+<h3>PEDOMETER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">y</span> thoughts beat
+out
+in sonnets while I walk,<br />
+And every evening on the homeward street<br />
+I find the rhythm of my marching feet<br />
+Throbs into verses (though the rhyme may balk).<br />
+I think the sonneteers were walking men:<br />
+The form is dour and rigid, like a clamp,<br />
+But with the swing of legs the tramp, tramp, tramp<br />
+Of syllables begins to thud, and then&#8212;<br />
+Lo! while you seek a rhyme for <i>hook</i> or <i>crook</i><br />
+shed your shabby coat, and you are kith<br />
+To all great walk-and-singers&#8212;Meredith,<br />
+And Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, and Rupert Brooke!<br />
+Free verse is poor for walking, but a sonnet&#8212;<br />
+O marvellous to stride and brood upon it!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_134"></a>[134]</span></p>
+<h3>HOSTAGES</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+"He that hath wife and children hath given
+hostages to fortune."&#8212;<span class="smcap">Bacon.</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">ye</span>, Fortune, thou
+hast hostage of my best!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I, that was once so
+heedless of thy frown,<br />
+Have armed thee cap-à-pie to strike me down,</div>
+Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.<br />
+My virtue, that was once all self-possessed,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Is parceled out in little
+hands, and brown<br />
+Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown:</div>
+To threaten these will put me to the test.<br />
+<br />
+Sure, since there are these pitiful poor chinks<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Upon the makeshift armor of
+my heart,</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">For thee no honor lies in
+such a fight!</div>
+And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who came awake with such a
+painful start</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">To hear the coughing of a
+child at night.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_135"></a>[135]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus137.jpg" alt="Hostage Scene" />
+<p class="caption"><i>Hostages.</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_137"></a>[137]</span></p>
+<h3>ARS DURA</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ow</span> many evenings,
+walking soberly<br />
+Along our street all dappled with rich sun,<br />
+I please myself with words, and happily<br />
+Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run;<br />
+And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies<br />
+Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask,<br />
+Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes<br />
+And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!<br />
+<br />
+Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft<br />
+But he had put away his sleep, his ease,<br />
+The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed<br />
+To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?<br />
+And yet, such joy does in that craft abide<br />
+He greets the paper as the groom the bride!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_138"></a>[138]</span></p>
+<h3>O. HENRY&#8212;APOTHECARY</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+("O. Henry" once worked in a drug-store in Greensboro, N. C.)</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">here</span> once he
+measured camphor, glycerine,<br />
+Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars,<br />
+And all the oils and essences so keen<br />
+That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars&#8212;<br />
+Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile,<br />
+The master pharmacist of joy and pain<br />
+Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile<br />
+And laughter that dissolves in tears again.<br />
+<br />
+O brave apothecary! You who knew<br />
+What dark and acid doses life prefers<br />
+And yet with friendly face resolved to brew<br />
+These sparkling potions for your customers&#8212;<br />
+In each prescription your Physician writ<br />
+You poured your rich compassion and your wit!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_139"></a>[139]</span></p>
+<h3>FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(1816)</p>
+<p style="text-align: center;">"On First Looking Into
+Chapman's Homer."</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> knew</span> a
+scientist,
+an engineer,<br />
+Student of tensile strengths and calculus,<br />
+A man who loved a cantilever truss<br />
+And always wore a pencil on his ear.<br />
+My friend believed that poets all were queer,<br />
+And literary folk ridiculous;<br />
+But one night, when it chanced that three of us<br />
+Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.<br />
+<br />
+Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!<br />
+His eager mind reached for it and took hold.<br />
+Ten years are by: I see him now and then,<br />
+And at alumni dinners, if cajoled,<br />
+He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:&#8212;<br />
+<i>Much have I travelled in the realms of gold.</i>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_140"></a>[140]</span></p>
+<h3>TWO O'CLOCK</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">N</span><span class="smcap">ight</span> after night
+goes by: and clocks still chime<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And stars are changing
+patterns in the dark,</div>
+And watches tick, and over-puissant Time<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Benumbs the eager brain.
+The dogs that bark,</div>
+The trains that roar and rattle in the night,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The very cats that prowl,
+all quiet find</div>
+And leave the darkness empty, silent quite:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Sleep comes to chloroform
+the fretting mind.</div>
+<br />
+So all things end: and what is left at last?<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Some scribbled sonnets
+tossed upon the floor,</div>
+A memory of easy days gone past,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A run-down watch, a pipe,
+some clothes we wore&#8212;</div>
+And in the darkened room I lean to know<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">How warm her dreamless
+breath does pause and flow.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_141"></a>[141]</span></p>
+<h3>THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">h</span> very sweet! If
+news should come to you<br />
+Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve,<br />
+That the great Manager had made me leave<br />
+To travel on some territory new;<br />
+And that, whatever homeward winds there blew,<br />
+I could not touch your hand again, nor heave<br />
+The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave<br />
+Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....<br />
+<br />
+Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind<br />
+Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could<br />
+Remember rightly, and forget aright?<br />
+Remember just your lad, uncouthly good,<br />
+Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?<br />
+Could you remember him as always kind?
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_142"></a>[142]</span></p>
+<h3>THE WEDDED LOVER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> read</span> in our old
+journals of the days<br />
+When our first love was April-sweet and new,<br />
+How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew<br />
+Despite the adverse time; and our amaze<br />
+At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise<br />
+That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue<br />
+The heaven arched us in, and all we knew<br />
+Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.<br />
+<br />
+They said by now the path would be more steep,<br />
+The sunsets paler and less mild the air;<br />
+Rightly we heeded not: it was not true.<br />
+We will not tell the secret&#8212;let it keep.<br />
+I know not how I thought those days so fair<br />
+These being so much fairer, spent with you.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_143"></a>[143]</span></p>
+<h3>TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> we were
+parted,
+sweet, and darkness came,<br />
+I used to strike a match, and hold the flame<br />
+Before your picture and would breathless mark<br />
+The answering glimmer of the tiny spark<br />
+That brought to life the magic of your eyes,<br />
+Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.<br />
+<br />
+Holding that mimic torch before your shrine<br />
+I used to light your eyes and make them mine;<br />
+Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky,<br />
+Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply;<br />
+Summon your lips from far across the sea<br />
+Bidding them live a twilight hour with me.<br />
+<br />
+Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom,<br />
+Lo&#8212;you were with me in the darkened room.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_144"></a>[144]</span></p>
+<h3>CHARLES AND MARY</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(December 27, 1834.)</p>
+<div class="line_in_2">Lamb died just before I
+left town, and Mr. Ryle of
+the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me....
+He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the
+event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so
+that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his
+beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">&#8212;Letter of John Rickman, 24
+January, 1835.</div><br />
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> hear</span> their
+voices
+still: the stammering one<br />
+Struggling with some absurdity of jest;<br />
+Her quiet words that puzzle and protest<br />
+Against the latest outrage of his fun.<br />
+So wise, so simple&#8212;has she never guessed<br />
+That through his laughter, love and terror run?<br />
+For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed,<br />
+He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.<br />
+<br />
+Through all those years it was his task to keep<br />
+Her gentle heart serenely mystified.<br />
+If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride&#8212;<br />
+When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead,<br />
+She innocently looked. "I always said<br />
+That Charles is really handsome when asleep."
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_145"></a>[145]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A GRANDMOTHER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> six o'clock in
+the evening,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The time for lullabies,</div>
+My son lay on my mother's lap<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With sleepy, sleepy eyes!</div>
+(<i>O drowsy little manny boy,</i><br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>With sleepy,
+sleepy eyes!</i>)</div>
+<br />
+I heard her sing, and rock him,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And the creak of the
+swaying chair,</div>
+And the old dear cadence of the words<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Came softly down the stair.</div>
+<br />
+And all the years had vanished,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All folly, greed, and stain&#8212;</div>
+The old, old song, the creaking chair,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The dearest arms again!</div>
+(<i>O lucky little manny boy,</i><br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>To feel those arms
+again!</i>)</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_146"></a>[146]</span></p>
+<h3>DIARISTS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">hey</span> catalogue
+their
+minutes: Now, now, now,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Is Actual, amid the
+fugitive;</div>
+Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">We snare this flying life,
+and make it live.</div>
+So to their little pictures, and they sieve<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Their happinesses: fields
+turned by the plough,</div>
+The afterglow that summer sunsets give,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The razor concave of a
+great ship's bow.</div>
+<br />
+O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Type cannot burn and
+sparkle on the page.</div>
+No glittering ink can make this written word<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Shine clear enough to speak
+the noble rage</div>
+And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The sudden mood of truth
+that gave them birth.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_147"></a>[147]</span></p>
+<h3>THE LAST SONNET</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">uppose</span> one knew
+that never more might one<br />
+Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now<br />
+These fourteen lines were all he could allow<br />
+To say his message, be forever done;<br />
+How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,<br />
+Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase<br />
+The windy trees, the beauty of his days,<br />
+Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.<br />
+How bitter then would be regret and pang<br />
+For former rhymes he dallied to refine,<br />
+For every verse that was not crystalline....<br />
+And if belike this last one feebly rang,<br />
+Honor and pride would cast it to the floor<br />
+Facing the judge with what was done before.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_148"></a>[148]</span></p>
+<h3>THE SAVAGE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">C</span><span class="smcap">ivilization</span>
+causes
+me<br />
+Alternate fits: disgust and glee.<br />
+<br />
+Buried in piles of glass and stone<br />
+My private spirit moves alone,<br />
+<br />
+Where every day from eight to six<br />
+I keep alive by hasty tricks.<br />
+<br />
+But I am simple in my soul;<br />
+My mind is sullen to control.<br />
+<br />
+At dusk I smell the scent of earth,<br />
+And I am dumb&#8212;too glad for mirth.<br />
+<br />
+I know the savors night can give,<br />
+And then, and then, I live, I live!<br />
+<br />
+No man is wholly pure and free,<br />
+For that is not his destiny,<br />
+<br />
+But though I bend, I will not break:<br />
+And still be savage, for Truth's sake.<br />
+<br />
+God damns the easily convinced<br />
+(Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_149"></a>[149]</span></p>
+<h3>ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> stood</span> on the
+pavement<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where I could admire</div>
+Behind the brown chapel<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The cream and gold spire.</div>
+<br />
+Above, gilded Lightning<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Swam high on his ball&#8212;</div>
+I saw the noon shadow<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The church of St. Paul.</div>
+<br />
+And was there a meaning?<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(My fancy would run),</div>
+Saint Paul in the shadow,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Saint Frank in the sun!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_150"></a>[150]</span></p>
+<h3>ADVICE TO A CITY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap"> city</span>, cage your
+poets! Hem them in<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And roof them over from the
+April sky&#8212;</div>
+Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And drown their voices with
+your thunder cry.</div>
+<br />
+Forbid their free feet on the windy hills,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And harness them to daily
+ruts of stone&#8212;</div>
+(In florists' windows lock the daffodils)<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And never, never let them
+be alone!</div>
+<br />
+For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And freedom gives their
+tongues uncanny wit,</div>
+And granted silence, thought and solitude<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They (<i>absit omen!</i>)
+might make Song of it.</div>
+<br />
+So cage them in, and stand about them thick,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And keep them busy with
+their daily bread;</div>
+And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quick<br />
+<div style="margin-left: 3em;">To interrupt them ere the
+word be said....</div>
+<br />
+For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With wasted sunsets and
+frustrated youth,</div>
+Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The savage, sweet,
+unpalatable truth!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_151"></a>[151]</span></p>
+<h3>THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">N</span><span class="smcap">o Malory</span> of old
+romance,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">No Crusoe tale, it seems to
+me,</div>
+Can equal in rich circumstance<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">This telephone directory.</div>
+<br />
+No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">No legend of proud knights
+and dames,</div>
+Can fill me with such bright surmise<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">As this great book of
+numbered names!</div>
+<br />
+How many hearts and lives unknown,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Rare damsels pining for a
+squire,</div>
+Are waiting for the telephone<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To ring, and call them to
+the wire.</div>
+<br />
+Some wait to hear a loved voice say<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The news they will rejoice
+to know</div>
+At Rome 2637 J<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Or Marathon 1450!</div>
+<br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_152"></a>[152]</span>
+And some, perhaps, are stung with fear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And answer with reluctant
+tread:</div>
+The message they expect to hear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Means life or death or
+daily bread.</div>
+<br />
+A million hearts here wait our call,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All naked to our distant
+speech&#8212;</div>
+I wish that I could ring them all<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And have some welcome news
+for each!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_153"></a>[153]</span></p>
+<h3>GREEN ESCAPE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t</span> three o'clock
+in
+the afternoon<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On a hot September day,</div>
+I began to dream of a highland stream<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And a frostbit russet tree;</div>
+Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(White canvas wet with
+spray)</div>
+And the swirling green and milk-foam clean<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Along her canted lee.</div>
+<br />
+I heard the quick staccato click<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of the typist's pounding
+keys,</div>
+And I had to brood of a wind more rude<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Than that by a motor fanned&#8212;</div>
+And I lay inert in a flannel shirt<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To watch the rhyming seas</div>
+Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On a beach of sun-blanched
+sand.</div>
+<br />
+There is no desk shall tame my lust<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">For hills and windy skies;</div>
+My secret hope of the sea's blue slope<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">No clerkly task shall dull;</div>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_154"></a>[154]</span>And
+though I print no echoed hint<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of adventures I devise,</div>
+My eyes still pine for the comely line<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of an outbound vessel's
+hull.</div>
+<br />
+When I elope with an autumn day<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And make my green escape,</div>
+I'll leave my pen to tamer men<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who have more docile souls;</div>
+For forest aisles and office files<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Have a very different shape,</div>
+And it's hard to woo the ocean blue<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In a row of pigeon holes!</div>
+</div>
+<div class="figcover">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_155"></a>[155]</span></p>
+<img src="images/illus157.jpg" alt="Rocky Outcrop" />
+<p class="caption"><i>My eyes still pine for the comely line</i><br />
+<i>Of an outbound vessel's hull.</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_157"></a>[157]</span></p>
+<h3>VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(<i>Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute the name of
+his favorite suburb</i>)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> stars are kind
+to Marathon,<br />
+How low, how close, they lean!<br />
+They jostle one another<br />
+And do their best to please&#8212;<br />
+Indeed, they are so neighborly<br />
+That in the twilight green<br />
+One reaches out to pick them<br />
+Behind the poplar trees.<br />
+<br />
+The stars are kind to Marathon,<br />
+And one particular<br />
+Bright planet (which is Vesper)<br />
+Most lucid and serene,<br />
+Is waiting by the railway bridge,<br />
+The Good Commuter's Star,<br />
+The Star of Wise Men coming home<br />
+On time, at 6:15!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_158"></a>[158]</span></p>
+<h3>THE ICE WAGON</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">'d</span> like to split
+the sky that roofs us down,<br />
+Break through the crystal lid of upper air,<br />
+And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.<br />
+I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness<br />
+Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.<br />
+<br />
+I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,<br />
+Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,<br />
+The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,<br />
+And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air<br />
+Down every alley where the children gasp.<br />
+<br />
+And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons&#8212;<br />
+Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,&#8212;<br />
+And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.<br />
+In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,<br />
+Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,<br />
+With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;<br />
+Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,<br />
+And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.<br />
+<br />
+And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_159"></a>[159]</span><br />
+A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.<br />
+My friends and I would chop and splinter open<br />
+The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,<br />
+And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,<br />
+And some would stagger home with it in baskets,<br />
+And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,<br />
+Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,<br />
+Gulping as they slipped down unexpected&#8212;<br />
+Laughing to perceive that secret numbness<br />
+Amid their small hot persons!<br />
+<br />
+At every stop would be at least one urchin<br />
+Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses<br />
+And hold it up against their silky noses&#8212;<br />
+And they would start, and then decide they liked it.<br />
+<br />
+Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town<br />
+Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,<br />
+Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!<br />
+Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,<br />
+A lucky few up sitting with the driver,<br />
+All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.<br />
+<br />
+And by the time the wagons were all empty
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_160"></a>[160]</span><br />
+Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,<br />
+Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.<br />
+But how we would recall those eager faces,<br />
+Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,<br />
+The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.<br />
+Then we would know that arms were made for aching&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_161"></a>[161]</span></p>
+<h3>AT A MOVIE THEATRE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ow</span> well he spoke
+who coined the phrase<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>The picture palace!</i>
+Aye, in sooth</div>
+A palace, where men's weary days<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Are crowned with kingliness
+of youth.</div>
+<br />
+Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where toes are trod and
+strained eyes smart,</div>
+We watch a wand of brightness limn<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The old heroics of the
+heart.</div>
+<br />
+Romance again hath us in thrall<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And Love is sweet and
+always true,</div>
+And in the darkness of the hall<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Hands clasp&#8212;as they were
+meant to do.</div>
+<br />
+Remote from peevish joys and ills<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Our souls, <i>pro tem</i>,
+are purged and free:</div>
+We see the sun on western hills,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The crumbling tumult of the
+sea.</div>
+<br />
+We are the blond that maidens crave,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_162"></a>[162]</span><br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Well balanced at a dozen
+banks;</div>
+By sleight of hand we haste to save<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A brown-eyed life, nor stay
+for thanks!</div>
+<br />
+Alas, perhaps our instinct feels<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Life is not all it might
+have been,</div>
+So we applaud fantastic reels<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of shadow, cast upon a
+screen!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_163"></a>[163]</span></p>
+<h3>SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">i</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">E</span><span class="smcap">ach</span> morn she
+crackles upward, tread by tread,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All apprehensive of some
+hideous sight:</div>
+Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Forgot his gas and let it
+burn all night&#8212;</div>
+The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She much suspects: for once
+some ink was spilled,</div>
+And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Found all the bathroom
+pipes with tea-leaves filled.</div>
+<br />
+<br />
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">ii</span></p>
+<br />
+No League of Nations scheme can make her gay&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She knows the rank
+duplicity of man;</div>
+Some folks expect clean towels every day,
+<div class="line_in_1">They'll get away with
+murder if they can!</div>
+She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)<br />
+<i>Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!</i>
+<br />
+<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">iii</span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_164"></a>[164]</span>
+</p>
+<br />
+Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:<br />
+They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,<br />
+They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,<br />
+They're out all morning, when a body cleans.<br />
+A man ain't so secretive, never cares<br />
+What kind of private papers he leaves lay,<br />
+So I can get a line on his affairs<br />
+And dope out whether he is likely pay.<br />
+But women! Say, they surely get my bug!<br />
+They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,<br />
+Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,<br />
+And fry marshmallows when their callers come.<br />
+They always are behindhand with their rents&#8212;<br />
+Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_165"></a>[165]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus167.jpg" alt="Cleaning Bedroom" />
+<p class="caption"><i>A man ain't so secretive, never cares</i><br />
+<i>What kind of private papers he leaves lay</i>&#8212;</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_167"></a>[167]</span></p>
+<h3>THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">bout</span> these
+roaring
+cylinders<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where leaping words and
+paper mate,</div>
+A sudden glory moves and stirs&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">An inky cataract in spate!</div>
+<br />
+What voice for falsehood or for truth,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">What hearts attentive to be
+stirred&#8212;</div>
+How dimly understood, in sooth,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The power of the printed
+word!</div>
+<br />
+These flashing webs and cogs of steel<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Have shaken empires, routed
+kings,</div>
+Yet never turn too fast to feel<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The tragedies of humble
+things.</div>
+<br />
+O words, be strict in honesty,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Be just and simple and
+serene;</div>
+O rhymes, sing true, or you will be<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Unworthy of this great
+machine!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_168"></a>[168]</span></p>
+<h3>DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">cross</span> the court
+there rises the back wall<br />
+Of the Magna Carta Apartments.<br />
+The other evening the people in the apartment opposite<br />
+Had forgotten to draw their curtains.<br />
+I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,<br />
+The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,<br />
+The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands<br />
+Outstretched in busy gesture.<br />
+<br />
+It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;<br />
+So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.<br />
+They were four: an elderly couple,<br />
+A young man, and a girl&#8212;with lovely shoulders<br />
+Mellow in the glow of the lamp.<br />
+They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.<br />
+<br />
+At last the older two left the room.<br />
+The boy and girl looked at each other....<br />
+Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.<br />
+<br />
+Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_169"></a>[169]</span><br />
+A little later I went down the street to the movies,<br />
+And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.<br />
+And as I watched them I felt like God&#8212;<br />
+Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_170"></a>[170]</span></p>
+<h3>RAPID TRANSIT</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">(To Stephen Vincent Benét.)</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">C</span><span class="smcap">limbing</span> is easy
+and
+swift on Parnassus!<br />
+Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;<br />
+There found a book of verse by a young poet.<br />
+Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!<br />
+Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting&#8212;<br />
+Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,<br />
+Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,<br />
+Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,<br />
+Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,<br />
+Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.<br />
+I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;<br />
+Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"></div>
+Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood&#8212;<br />
+Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,<br />
+Trying my trinkets with those of his finding&#8212;<br />
+<i>And as I left the bookshop</i><br />
+<i>My pipe was still warm in my hand.</i>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_171"></a>[171]</span></p>
+<h3>CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">C</span><span class="smcap">olin</span>, worshipping
+some frail,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By self-deprecation sways
+her:</div>
+Calls himself unworthy male,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Hardly even fit to praise
+her.</div>
+<br />
+But this tactic insincere<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In the upshot greatly
+grieves him</div>
+When he finds the lovely dear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Quite implicitly believes
+him.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_172"></a>[172]</span></p>
+<h3>TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+<i>Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses</i>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">f sometimes</span>, in a
+random phrase<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(For variation in my ditty),</div>
+I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And seem to intimate them
+pretty&#8212;</div>
+<br />
+It is because I do not dare<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With too unmixed reiteration</div>
+To sing the browner eyes and hair<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That are my true
+intoxication.</div>
+<br />
+Know, then, that I consider brown<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">For ladies' eyes, the only
+color;</div>
+And deem all other orbs in town<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(Compared to yours),
+opaquer, duller.</div>
+<br />
+I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">While blue-eyed maids the
+praise were drinking,</div>
+How insubstantial was their cheer&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">It was of yours that I was
+thinking!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_173"></a>[173]</span></p>
+<h3>PEACE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hat</span> is this Peace<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That statesmen sign?</div>
+How I have sought<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To make it mine.</div>
+<br />
+Where groaning cities<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Clang and glow</div>
+I hunted, hunted,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Peace to know.</div>
+<br />
+And still I saw<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where I passed by</div>
+Discarded hearts,&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Heard children cry.</div>
+<br />
+By willowed waters<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Brimmed with rain</div>
+I thought to capture<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Peace again.</div>
+<br />
+I sat me down<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My Peace to hoard,</div>
+But Beauty pricked me<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With a sword.</div>
+<br />
+For in the stillness
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_174"></a>[174]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Something stirred,</div>
+And I was crippled<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">For a word.</div>
+<br />
+There is no peace<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A man can find;</div>
+The anguish sits<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His heart behind.</div>
+<br />
+The eyes he loves,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The perfect breast,</div>
+Too exquisite<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To give him rest.</div>
+<br />
+This is his curse<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Since brain began.</div>
+His penalty<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">For being man.</div>
+</div>
+<p>May, 1919</p>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_175"></a>[175]</span></p>
+<h3>SONG, IN DEPRECATION OF PULCHRITUDE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">B</span><span class="smcap">eauty</span> (so the
+poets
+say),<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Thou art joy and solace
+great;</div>
+Long ago, and far away<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Thou art safe to
+contemplate,</div>
+<br />
+Beauty. But when now and here,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Visible and close to touch,</div>
+All too perilously near,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Thou tormentest us too much!</div>
+<br />
+In a picture, in a song,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In a novel's conjured
+scenes,</div>
+Beauty, that's where you belong,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where perspective
+intervenes.</div>
+<br />
+But, my dear, in rosy fact<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Your appeal I have to shirk&#8212;</div>
+You disturb me, and distract<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">My attention from my work!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_176"></a>[176]</span></p>
+<h3>MOUNTED POLICE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">atchful</span>, grave,
+he
+sits astride his horse,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Draped with his rubber
+poncho, in the rain;</div>
+He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And those who try to bluff
+him, try in vain.</div>
+<br />
+Inured to every mood of fool and crank,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Shrewdly and sternly all
+the crowd he cons:</div>
+The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A figure nobly fit for
+sculptor's bronze.</div>
+<br />
+O knight commander of our city stress,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Little you know how
+picturesque you are!</div>
+We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">"<i>Say, that's a
+helva place to park your car!</i>"</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_177"></a>[177]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus179.jpg" alt="Mounted Police." />
+<p class="caption"><i>Mounted Police</i>.</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_179"></a>[179]</span></p>
+<h3>TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN
+GALAXY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hy</span> did not Fate
+to
+me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?<br />
+It would have been delight to me<br />
+If <i>natus ante</i> 1603.<br />
+<br />
+My stuff would not be soon forgotten<br />
+If I could write like Harry Wotton.<br />
+<br />
+I wish that I could wield the pen<br />
+Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.<br />
+<br />
+I would not fear the ticking clock<br />
+If I were Browne of Tavistock.<br />
+<br />
+For blithe conceits I would not worry<br />
+If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.<br />
+<br />
+I wish (I hope I am not silly?)<br />
+That I could juggle words like Lyly.<br />
+<br />
+I envy many a lyric champion,<br />
+I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.<br />
+<br />
+I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_180"></a>[180]</span>
+<br />
+I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.<br />
+<br />
+My wits are dull as an old Barlow&#8212;<br />
+I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.<br />
+<br />
+In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,<br />
+Or some one else of that same kidney.<br />
+<br />
+For if I were, my lady's looks<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And all my lyric special
+pleading</div>
+Would be in all the future books,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And called, at college, <i>Required
+Reading</i>.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_181"></a>[181]</span></p>
+<h3>THE INTRUDER</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">s</span> I sat, to sift
+my
+dreaming<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To the meet and needed word,</div>
+Came a merry Interruption<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With insistence to be heard.</div>
+<br />
+Smiling stood a maid beside me,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Half alluring and half shy;</div>
+Soft the white hint of her bosom&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Escapade was in her eye.</div>
+<br />
+"I must not be so invaded,"<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(In an anger then I cried)&#8212;</div>
+"Can't you see that I am busy?<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Tempting creature, stay
+outside!</div>
+<br />
+"Pearly rascal, I am writing:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I am now composing verse&#8212;</div>
+Fie on antic invitation:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Wanton, vanish&#8212;fly&#8212;disperse!</div>
+<br />
+"Baggage, in my godlike moment<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">What have I to do with
+thee?"</div>
+And she laughed as she departed&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"> "I am Poetry," said she.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_182"></a>[182]</span></p>
+<h3>TIT FOR TAT</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> often</span> pass a
+gracious tree<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Whose name I can't identify,</div>
+But still I bow, in courtesy<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">It waves a bough, in kind
+reply.</div>
+<br />
+I do not know your name, O tree<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(Are you a hemlock or a
+pine?)</div>
+But why should that embarrass me?<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Quite probably you don't
+know mine.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_183"></a>[183]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus185.jpg" alt="Tit for Tat" />
+<p class="caption"><i>Courtesy</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_185"></a>[185]</span></p>
+<h3>SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">'m</span> glad our house
+is a little house,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Not too tall nor too wide:</div>
+I'm glad the hovering butterflies<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Feel free to come inside.</div>
+<br />
+Our little house is a friendly house.<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">It is not shy or vain;</div>
+It gossips with the talking trees,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And makes friends with the
+rain.</div>
+<br />
+And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Against our whited walls,</div>
+And in the phlox, the courteous bees<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Are paying duty calls.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_186"></a>[186]</span></p>
+<h3>THE PLUMPUPPETS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> little heads
+weary have gone to their bed,<br />
+When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,<br />
+Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest<br />
+The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.<br />
+<br />
+<i>If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,</i><br />
+<i>The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;</i><br />
+<i>They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat&#8212;</i><br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>The little
+Plumpuppets plump-up it!</i></div>
+<br />
+The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:<br />
+They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;<br />
+They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,<br />
+And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_187"></a>[187]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">No matter what troubles
+have bothered the day,
+<br />
+Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;<br />
+Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt&#8212;<br />
+Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.<br />
+<br />
+<i>If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,<br />
+The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;<br />
+They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat&#8212;</i><br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>The little
+Plumpuppets plump-up it!</i></div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_189"></a>[189]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus189.jpg" alt="The Plumpuppets" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The Plumpuppets</i>
+<br />
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_190"></a>[190]</span></p>
+<h3>DANDY DANDELION</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> Dandy
+Dandelion
+wakes<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And combs his yellow hair,</div>
+The ant his cup of dewdrop takes<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And sets his bed to air;</div>
+The worm hides in a quilt of dirt<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To keep the thrush away,</div>
+The beetle dons his pansy shirt&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They know that it is day!</div>
+<br />
+And caterpillars haste to milk<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The cowslips in the grass;</div>
+The spider, in his web of silk,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Looks out for flies that
+pass.</div>
+These humble people leap from bed,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They know the night is done:</div>
+When Dandy spreads his golden head<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">They think he is the sun!</div>
+<br />
+Dear Dandy truly does not smell
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_191"></a>[191]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">As sweet as some bouquets;</div>
+No florist gathers him to sell,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">He withers in a vase;</div>
+Yet in the grass he's emperor,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And lord of high renown;</div>
+And grateful little folk adore<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His bright and shining
+crown.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_192"></a>[192]</span></p>
+<h3>THE HIGH CHAIR</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">G</span><span class="smcap">rimly</span> the parent
+matches wit and will:<br />
+Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,<br />
+<i>He'd</i> drink it. You want to be big and fat<br />
+Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)<br />
+Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,<br />
+But you must finish first. Come, drink it up&#8212;<br />
+(<i>Splash</i>!) Oh, you <i>must</i> keep both
+hands on the cup.<br />
+All gone? Now for the prunes....<br />
+<div style="margin-left: 10em;"> And so it goes.</div>
+<br />
+This is the battlefield that parents know,<br />
+Where one small splinter of old Adam's rib<br />
+Withstands an entire household offering spoons.<br />
+No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go<br />
+Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib<br />
+With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_193"></a>[193]</span></p>
+<h3>LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">N</span><span class="smcap">ot</span> long ago I
+fell
+in love,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">But unreturned is my
+affection&#8212;</div>
+The girl that I'm enamored of<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Pays little heed in my
+direction.</div>
+<br />
+I thought I knew her fairly well:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In fact, I'd had my arm
+around her;</div>
+And so it's hard to have to tell<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">How unresponsive I have
+found her.</div>
+<br />
+For, though she is not frankly rude,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her manners quite the wrong
+way rub me:</div>
+It seems to me ingratitude<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To let me love her&#8212;and then
+snub me!</div>
+<br />
+Though I'm considerate and fond,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She shows no gladness when
+she spies me&#8212;</div>
+She gazes off somewhere beyond<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And doesn't even recognize
+me.</div>
+<br />
+Her eyes, so candid, calm and blue,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_194"></a>[194]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Seem asking if I can
+support her</div>
+In the style appropriate to<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A lady like her father's
+daughter.</div>
+<br />
+Well, if I can't then no one can&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And let me add that I
+intend to:</div>
+She'll never know another man<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">So fit for her to be a
+friend to.</div>
+<br />
+Not love me, eh? She better had!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By Jove, I'll make her love
+me one day;</div>
+For, don't you see, I am her Dad,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And she'll be three weeks
+old on Sunday!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_195"></a>[195]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus197.jpg" alt="Babe in arms" />
+<p class="caption"><i> ... It's hard to have to tell</i><br />
+<i>How unresponsive I have found her.</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_197"></a>[197]</span></p>
+<h3>AUTUMN COLORS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> chestnut trees
+turned yellow,<br />
+The oak like sherry browned,<br />
+The fir, the stubborn fellow,<br />
+Stayed green the whole year round.<br />
+<br />
+But O the bonny maple<br />
+How richly he does shine!<br />
+He glows against the sunset<br />
+Like ruddy old port wine.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_198"></a>[198]</span></p>
+<h3>THE LAST CRICKET</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> the bulb of
+the
+moon with white fire fills<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And dead leaves crackle
+under the feet,</div>
+When men roll kegs to the cider mills<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And chestnuts roast on
+every street;</div>
+<br />
+When the night sky glows like a hollow shell<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of lustered emerald and
+pearl,</div>
+The kilted cricket knows too well<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His doom. His tiny bagpipes
+skirl.</div>
+<br />
+Quavering under the polished stars<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In stubble, thicket, and
+frosty copse</div>
+The cricket blows a few choked bars,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And puts away his pipe&#8212;and
+stops.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_199"></a>[199]</span></p>
+<h3>TO LOUISE</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(A Christmas Baby, Now One Year Old.)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">U</span><span class="smcap">ndaunted</span> by a
+world
+of grief<br />
+You came upon perplexing days,<br />
+And cynics doubt their disbelief<br />
+To see the sky-stains in your gaze.<br />
+<br />
+Your sudden and inclusive smile<br />
+And your emphatic tears, admit<br />
+That you must find this life worth while,<br />
+So eagerly you clutch at it!<br />
+<br />
+Your face of triumph says, brave mite,<br />
+That life is full of love and luck&#8212;<br />
+Of blankets to kick off at night,<br />
+And two soft rose-pink thumbs to suck.<br />
+<br />
+O loveliest of pioneers<br />
+Upon this trail of long surprise,<br />
+May all the stages of the years<br />
+Show such enchantment in your eyes!<br />
+<br />
+By parents' patient buttonings,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_200"></a>[200]</span>
+<br />
+And endless safety pins, you'll grow<br />
+To ribbons, garters, hooks and things,<br />
+Up to the Ultimate Trousseau&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+But never, in your dainty prime,<br />
+Will you be more adored by me<br />
+Than when you see, this Great First Time,<br />
+Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!<br />
+<br />
+December, 1919.
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_201"></a>[201]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus203.jpg" alt="First Christmas" />
+<p class="caption"><i>... When you see, this Great First Time,</i><br />
+<i>Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_203"></a>[203]</span></p>
+<h3>CHRISTMAS EVE</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">ur</span> hearts
+to-night
+are open wide,<br />
+The grudge, the grief, are laid aside:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The path and porch are
+swept of snow,<br />
+The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow&#8212;</div>
+No visitor can be denied.<br />
+<br />
+All tender human homes must hide<br />
+Some wistfulness beneath their pride:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Compassionate and humble
+grow</div>
+<div class="line_in_2">Our hearts to-night.</div>
+<br />
+Let empty chair and cup abide!<br />
+Who knows? Some well-remembered stride<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">May come as once so long
+ago&#8212;<br />
+Then welcome, be it friend or foe!</div>
+There is no anger can divide<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">Our hearts to-night.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_204"></a>[204]</span></p>
+<h3>EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">M</span><span class="smcap">ajestic</span> tomes,
+you
+are the tomb<br />
+Of Aristides Edward Bloom,<br />
+Who labored, from the world aloof,<br />
+In reading every page of proof.<br />
+<br />
+From A to And, from Aus to Bis<br />
+Enthusiasm still was his;<br />
+From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con<br />
+His soft-lead pencil still went on.<br />
+<br />
+But reaching volume Fra to Gib,<br />
+He knew at length that he was sib<br />
+To Satan; and he sold his soul<br />
+To reach the section Pay to Pol.<br />
+<br />
+Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub<br />
+He staggered on, and sought a pub.<br />
+And just completing Vet to Zym,<br />
+The motor hearse came round for him.<br />
+<br />
+He perished, obstinately brave:<br />
+They laid the Index on his grave.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_205"></a>[205]</span></p>
+<h3>THE MUSIC BOX</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap">t six</span>&#8212;long ere
+the
+wintry dawn&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">There sounded through the
+silent hall</div>
+To where I lay, with blankets drawn<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Above my ears, a plaintive
+call.</div>
+<br />
+The Urchin, in the eagerness<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of three years old, could
+not refrain;</div>
+Awake, he straightway yearned to dress<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And frolic with his
+clockwork train.</div>
+<br />
+I heard him with a sullen shock.<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His sister, by her usual
+plan,</div>
+Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I vowed to quench the
+little man.</div>
+<br />
+I leaned above him, somewhat stern,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And spoke, I fear, with
+emphasis&#8212;</div>
+Ah, how much better, parents learn,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To seal one's censure with
+a kiss!</div>
+<br />
+Again the house was dark and still,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Again I lay in slumber's
+snare,</div>
+When down the hall I heard a trill,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A tiny, tinkling, tuneful
+air&#8212;</div>
+<br />
+His music-box! His best-loved toy,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_206"></a>[206]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His crib companion every
+night;</div>
+And now he turned to it for joy<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">While waiting for the
+lagging light.</div>
+<br />
+How clear, and how absurdly sad<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Those tingling pricks of
+sound unrolled;</div>
+They chirped and quavered, as the lad<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His lonely little heart
+consoled.</div>
+<br />
+<i>Columbia, the Ocean's Gem</i>&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(Its only tune) shrilled
+sweet and faint.</div>
+He cranked the chimes, admiring them<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In vigil gay, without
+complaint.</div>
+<br />
+The treble music piped and stirred,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The leaping air that was
+his bliss;</div>
+And, as I most contritely heard,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I thanked the
+all-unconscious Swiss!</div>
+<br />
+The needled jets of melody<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Rang slowlier and died away&#8212;</div>
+The Urchin slept; and it was I<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who lay and waited for the
+day.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_207"></a>[207]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus209.jpg" alt="Music Box" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The Music Box</i></p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_209"></a>[209]</span></p>
+<h3>TO LUATH</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(<i>Robert Burns's Dog</i>)
+</p>
+<p><i>"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.</i></p>
+<p><i>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.</i></p>
+<p><i>That was the beginning of an acquaintance that
+coloured all of Burns's life.</i>
+&#8212;<span class="smcap">Nathan Haskell Dole.</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">ell</span>, Luath, man,
+when you came prancing<br />
+All glee to see your Robin dancing,<br />
+His partner's muslin gown mischancing<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">You leaped for joy!</div>
+And little guessed what sweet romancing<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">You caused, my boy!</div>
+<br />
+With happy bark, that moment jolly,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_210"></a>[210]</span>
+<br />
+You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie;<br />
+His other dog, old melancholy,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Was put to flight&#8212;</div>
+But what a tale of grief and folly<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">You wagged that night!</div>
+<br />
+Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny master<br />
+Whose lyric pulse beat ever faster<br />
+Each time he saw a lass and passed her<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His breast went bang!</div>
+In many a woful heart's disaster<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">He felt the pang!</div>
+<br />
+Poor Robin's heart, forever burning,<br />
+Forever roving, ranting, yearning,<br />
+From you that heart might have been learning<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To be less fickle!</div>
+Might have been spared so many a turning<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And grievous prickle!</div>
+<br />
+Your collie heart held but one notion&#8212;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_211"></a>[211]</span>
+<br />
+When Robbie jigged in sprightly motion<br />
+You ran to show your own devotion<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And gambolled too,</div>
+And so that tempest on love's ocean<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Was due to you!</div>
+<br />
+Well, it is ower late for preaching<br />
+And hearts are aye too hot for teaching!<br />
+When Robin with his eye beseeching<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By greenside came,</div>
+Jeanie&#8212;poor lass&#8212;forgot her bleaching<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And yours the blame!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_212"></a>[212]</span></p>
+<h3>THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> had</span> a friend
+whose
+path was pain&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Oppressed by all the cares
+of earth</div>
+Life gave him little chance to drain<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His secret cisterns of rich
+mirth.</div>
+<br />
+His work was hasty, harassed, vexed:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His dreams were laid aside,
+perforce,</div>
+Until&#8212;in this world, or the next....<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(His trade? Newspaper man,
+of course!)</div>
+<br />
+What funded wealth of tenderness,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">What ingots of the heart
+and mind</div>
+He must uneasily repress<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Beneath the rasping daily
+grind.</div>
+<br />
+But now and then, and with my aid,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">For fear his soul be wholly
+lost,</div>
+His devoir to the grape he paid<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To call soul back, at any
+cost!</div>
+<br />
+Then, liberate from discipline,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Undrugged by caution and
+control,</div>
+Through all his veins came flooding in<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The virtued passion of his
+soul!</div>
+<br />
+His spirit bared, and felt no shame:
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_213"></a>[213]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With holy light his eyes
+would shine&#8212;</div>
+See Truth her acolyte reclaim<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">After the second glass of
+wine!</div>
+<br />
+The self that life had trodden hard<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Aspired, was generous and
+free:</div>
+The glowing heart that care had charred<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Grew flame, as it was meant
+to be.</div>
+<br />
+A pox upon the canting lot<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who call the glass the
+Devil's shape&#8212;</div>
+A greater pox where'er some sot<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Defiles the honor of the
+grape.</div>
+<br />
+Then look with reverence on wine<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That kindles human brains
+uncouth&#8212;</div>
+There must be something part divine<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In aught that brings us
+nearer Truth!</div>
+<br />
+So&#8212;continently skull your fumes<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(Here let our little sermon
+end)</div>
+And bless this X-ray that illumes<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The secret bosom of your
+friend!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_214"></a>[214]</span></p>
+<h3>A SYMPOSIUM</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">here</span> was a
+Russian
+novelist<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Whose name was Solugubrious,</div>
+The reading circles took him up,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(They'd heard he was
+salubrious.)</div>
+<br />
+The women's club of Cripple Creek<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Soon held a kind of seminar</div>
+To learn just what his message was&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">You know what bookworms
+women are.</div>
+<br />
+The tea went round. After five cups<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(You should have seen them
+bury tea)</div>
+Dear Mrs. Brown said what she liked<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Was the great man's <i>sincerity</i>.</div>
+<br />
+Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she was<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">From all besetting vanity)</div>
+Declared that she loved even more<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">His broad and deep <i>humanity</i>.</div>
+<br />
+Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimed<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">All thought of being
+critical,</div>
+Protested that she found his work<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A wee bit <i>analytical</i>.</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_215"></a>[215]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">But Mrs. Black, the
+President,
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of wisdom found the
+pinnacle:</div>
+She said, "Dear me, I always think<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Those Russians are so <i>cynical</i>."</div>
+<br />
+Well, poor old Solugubrious,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">It's true that they had
+heard of him;</div>
+But neither Brown, Jones, Smith, nor Black<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Had ever read a word of him!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_217"></a>[217]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus217.jpg" alt="Tea Drinker" />
+<p class="caption"><i>Solugubrious</i>
+</p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_218"></a>[218]</span></p>
+<h3>TO A TELEPHONE OPERATOR WHO HAS A BAD COLD</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ow</span> hoarse and
+husky
+in my ear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Your usually cheerful
+chirrup:</div>
+You have an awful cold, my dear&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Try aspirin or bronchial
+syrup.</div>
+<br />
+When I put in a call to-day<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Compassion stirred my
+humane blood red</div>
+To hear you faintly, sadly, say<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The number: <i>Burray
+Hill dide hudred!</i></div>
+<br />
+I felt (I say) quick sympathy<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To hear you croak in the
+receiver&#8212;</div>
+Will you be sorry too for me<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A month hence, when I have
+hay fever?</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_219"></a>[219]</span></p>
+<h3>NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(Dedicated to Don Marquis.)
+</p>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+<span class="smcap">I</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">cuttle</span>, scuttle,
+little roach&#8212;<br />
+How you run when I approach:<br />
+Up above the pantry shelf.<br />
+Hastening to secrete yourself.<br />
+<br />
+Most adventurous of vermin,<br />
+How I wish I could determine<br />
+How you spend your hours of ease,<br />
+Perhaps reclining on the cheese.<br />
+<br />
+Cook has gone, and all is dark&#8212;<br />
+Then the kitchen is your park:<br />
+In the garbage heap that she leaves<br />
+Do you browse among the tea leaves?<br />
+<br />
+How delightful to suspect<br />
+All the places you have trekked:<br />
+Does your long antenna whisk its<br />
+Gentle tip across the biscuits?<br />
+<br />
+Do you linger, little soul,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_220"></a>[220]</span>
+<br />
+Drowsing in our sugar bowl?<br />
+Or, abandonment most utter,<br />
+Shake a shimmy on the butter?<br />
+<br />
+Do you chant your simple tunes<br />
+Swimming in the baby's prunes?<br />
+Then, when dawn comes, do you slink<br />
+Homeward to the kitchen sink?<br />
+<br />
+Timid roach, why be so shy?<br />
+We are brothers, thou and I.<br />
+In the midnight, like yourself,<br />
+I explore the pantry shelf!
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_221"></a>[221]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus223.jpg" alt="Midnight Snack" />
+<p class="caption"><i>In the midnight, like yourself,</i><br />
+<i>I explore the pantry shelf!</i>
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+<span class="smcap">II</span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_223"></a>[223]</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">R</span><span class="smcap">ockabye</span>, insect,
+lie low in thy den,<br />
+Father's a cockroach, mother's a hen.<br />
+And Betty, the maid, doesn't clean up the sink,<br />
+So you shall have plenty to eat and to drink.<br />
+<br />
+Hushabye, insect, behind the mince pies:<br />
+If the cook sees you her anger will rise;<br />
+She'll scatter poison, as bitter as gall,<br />
+Death to poor cockroach, hen, baby and all.
+</div>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+<span class="smcap">III</span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_224"></a>[224]</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">here</span> was a gay
+henroach, and what do you think,<br />
+She lived in a cranny behind the old sink&#8212;<br />
+Eggshells and grease were the chief of her diet;<br />
+She went for a stroll when the kitchen was quiet.<br />
+<br />
+She walked in the pantry and sampled the bread,<br />
+But when she came back her old husband was dead:<br />
+Long had he lived, for his legs they were fast,<br />
+But the kitchen maid caught him and squashed him at last.
+</div>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+<span class="smcap">IV</span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_225"></a>[225]</span>
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap"> knew</span> a black
+beetle, who lived down a drain,<br />
+And friendly he was though his manners were plain;<br />
+When I took a bath he would come up the pipe,<br />
+And together we'd wash and together we'd wipe.<br />
+<br />
+Though mother would sometimes protest with a sneer<br />
+That my choice of a tub-mate was wanton and queer,<br />
+A nicer companion I never have seen:<br />
+He bathed every night, so he must have been clean.<br />
+<br />
+Whenever he heard the tap splash in the tub<br />
+He'd dash up the drain-pipe and wait for a scrub,<br />
+And often, so fond of ablution was he,<br />
+I'd find him there floating and waiting for me.<br />
+<br />
+But nurse has done something that seems a great shame:
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_226"></a>[226]</span>
+<br />
+She saw him there, waiting, prepared for a game:<br />
+She turned on the hot and she scalded him sore<br />
+And he'll never come bathing with me any more.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_227"></a>[227]</span></p>
+<h3>THE TWINS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">C</span><span class="smcap"> on</span> was a thorn
+to
+brother Pro&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On Pro we often sicked him:</div>
+Whatever Pro would claim to know<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Old Con would contradict
+him!</div>
+</div>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus229.jpg" alt="Twins" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The Twins</i>
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_228"></a>[228]</span></p>
+<h3>A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(<i>Extremely technical</i>)
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">I</span><span class="smcap">'d</span> like to have
+you
+meet my wife!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I simply cannot keep from
+hinting</div>
+I've never seen, in all my life,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">So fine a specimen of
+printing.</div>
+<br />
+Her type is not some <b>bold-face</b> font,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Set solid. Nay! And I will
+say out</div>
+That no typographer could want<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To see a better balanced
+layout.</div>
+<br />
+A nice proportion of white space<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">There is for brown eyes to
+look large in,</div>
+And not a feature in her face<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Comes anywhere too near the
+margin.</div>
+<br />
+Locked up with all her sweet display<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her form will never pi.
+She's like a</div>
+Corrected proof marked <i>stet, O. K.</i>&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And yet she loves me,
+fatface <span class="large"><b>Pica!</b></span></div>
+<br />
+She has a fine one-column head,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_229"></a>[229]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And like a comma curves
+each eyebrow&#8212;</div>
+Her forehead has an extra lead<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Which makes her seem a
+trifle highbrow.</div>
+<br />
+Her nose, <small><i>italicized brevier</i></small>,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Too lovely to describe by
+penpoint;</div>
+Her mouth is set in <small>pearl:</small> her ear<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And chin are comely Caslon
+ten-point.</div>
+<br />
+Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis)<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Make my pulse beat 14-em
+measure,</div>
+And such typography as this<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Would make <small><b>De
+Vinne</b></small> scream with pleasure.</div>
+<br />
+And so, of all typefounder chaps<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her father's best, in my
+opinion;</div>
+She is my <span class="smcap">nonpareil (in caps)</span><br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And I (in lower case) her <small>minion.</small></div>
+<br />
+I hope you will not stand aloof<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Because my metaphors are
+shoppy;</div>
+Of her devotion I've a proof&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I tell the urchin, <i>Follow
+Copy</i>!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_230"></a>[230]</span></p>
+<h3>THE POET ON THE HEARTH</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> fire is
+kindled
+on the dogs,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">But still the stubborn oak
+delays,</div>
+Small embers laid above the logs<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Will draw them into sudden
+blaze.</div>
+<br />
+Just so the minor poet's part:<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">(A greater he need not
+desire)</div>
+The charcoals of his burning heart<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">May light some Master into
+fire!</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_231"></a>[231]</span></p>
+<h3>O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap"> praise</span> me not
+the
+country&#8212;<br />
+The meadows green and cool,<br />
+The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool!<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">The city for my craving,<br />
+Her lordship and her slaving,<br />
+The hot stones of her paving<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">For me, a city fool!</div>
+</div>
+<br />
+O praise me not the leisure<br />
+Of gardened country seats,<br />
+The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">The city for my yearning,<br />
+My spending and my earning.<br />
+Her winding ways for learning,<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">Sing hey! the city streets!</div>
+</div>
+<br />
+O praise me not the country,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_232"></a>[232]</span>
+<br />
+Her sycamores and bees,<br />
+I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees!<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">The city for my wooing,<br />
+My dreaming and my doing;<br />
+Her beauty for pursuing,<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">Her deathless mysteries.</div>
+</div>
+<br />
+O praise me not the country,<br />
+Her evenings full of stars,<br />
+Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">The city for my wonder,<br />
+Her glory and her blunder,<br />
+And O the haunting thunder<br />
+<div class="line_in_2">Of the Elevated cars!</div>
+</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_233"></a>[233]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus235.jpg" alt="Seascape" />
+<p class="caption"><i>O praise me not the country</i></p>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_235"></a>[235]</span></p>
+<h3>A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+(New York)
+</p>
+<div style="margin-left: 12em;"> <i>Here Lyes the
+Body of</i><br />
+<i>Iohn Jones the Son of</i><br />
+<i>Iohn Jones Who Departed</i><br />
+<i>This Life December the 13</i><br />
+<i>1768 Aged 4 Years &amp; 4 Months &amp; 2 Days</i>
+<br />
+<br />
+</div>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">H</span><span class="smcap">ere</span>, where
+enormous
+shadows creep,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">He casts his childish
+shadow too:</div>
+How small he seems, beneath the steep<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Great walls; his tender
+days, so few,</div>
+Lovingly numbered, every one&#8212;<br />
+John Jones, John Jones's little son.<br />
+<br />
+O sunlight on the Lightning's wings!<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Yet though our buildings
+skyward climb</div>
+Our heartbreaks are but little things<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">In the equality of Time.</div>
+The sum of life, for all men's stones:<br />
+He was John Jones, son of John Jones.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_236"></a>[236]</span></p>
+<h3>THE MADONNA OF THE CURB</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap">n</span> the curb of a
+city pavement,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">By the ash and garbage cans,</div>
+In the stench and rolling thunder<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Of motor trucks and vans,</div>
+There sits my little lady,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With brave but troubled
+eyes,</div>
+And in her arms a baby<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That cries and cries and
+cries.</div>
+<br />
+She cannot be more than seven;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">But years go fast in the
+slums,</div>
+And hard on the pains of winter<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The pitiless summer comes.</div>
+The wail of sickly children<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She knows; she understands</div>
+The pangs of puny bodies,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The clutch of small hot
+hands.</div>
+<br />
+In the deadly blaze of August,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That turns men faint and
+mad,</div>
+She quiets the peevish urchins
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_237"></a>[237]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">
+<div class="line_in_1">By telling a dream she had&#8212;</div>
+A heaven with marble counters,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And ice, and a singing fan;</div>
+And a God in white, so friendly,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Just like the drug-store
+man.</div>
+<br />
+Her ragged dress is dearer<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Than the perfect robe of a
+queen!</div>
+Poor little lass, who knows not<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The blessing of being clean.</div>
+And when you are giving millions<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">To Belgian, Pole and Serb,</div>
+Remember my pitiful lady&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Madonna of the Curb!</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_239"></a>[239]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus239.jpg" alt="Child on Kerbside" />
+<p class="caption"><i>The wail of sickly children</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>She knows; she
+understands</i></span><br />
+<i>The pangs of puny bodies,</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>The clutch of
+small hot hands.</i></span>
+</p>
+<br />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_240"></a>[240]</span></p>
+<h3>THE ISLAND</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap"><i>A</i></span><span class="smcap"><i>
+song</i></span><i>
+for England?</i><br />
+<div class="line_in_1"><i>Nay, what is a
+song for England?</i></div>
+<br />
+Our hearts go by green-cliffed Kinsale<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Among the gulls' white
+wings,</div>
+Or where, on Kentish forelands pale<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The lighthouse beacon
+swings:</div>
+Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Come in on Suffolk foam&#8212;</div>
+The blood that will not be denied<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Moves fast, and calls us
+home!</div>
+<br />
+Our hearts now walk a secret round<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">On many a Cotswold hill,</div>
+For we are mixed of island ground,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The island draws us still:</div>
+Our hearts may pace a windy turn<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Where Sussex downs are high,</div>
+Or watch the lights of London burn,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A bonfire in the sky!</div>
+<br />
+What is the virtue of that soil
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_241"></a>[241]</span>
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">That flings her strength so
+wide?</div>
+Her ancient courage, patient toil,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Her stubborn wordless pride?</div>
+A little land, yet loved therein<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">As any land may be,</div>
+Rejoicing in her discipline,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The salt stress of the sea.</div>
+<br />
+Our hearts shall walk a Sherwood track,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Our lips taste English rain,</div>
+We thrill to see the Union Jack<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Across some deep-sea lane;</div>
+Though all the world be of rich cost<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And marvellous with worth,</div>
+Yet if that island ground were lost<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">How empty were the earth!</div>
+<br />
+<i>A song for England?</i><br />
+<i>Lo, every word we speak's a song for England.</i>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_242"></a>[242]</span></p>
+<h3>SUNDAY NIGHT</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">T</span><span class="smcap">wo</span> grave brown
+eyes, severely bent<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Upon a memorandum book&#8212;</div>
+A sparkling face, on which are blent<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">A hopeful and a pensive
+look;</div>
+A pencil, purse, and book of checks<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">With stubs for varying
+amounts&#8212;</div>
+Elaine, the shrewdest of her sex,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1"> Is busy balancing accounts.</div>
+<br />
+Sedately, in the big armchair,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">She, all engrossed, the
+audit scans&#8212;</div>
+Her pencil hovers here and there<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">The while she calculates
+and plans;</div>
+What's this? A faintly pensive frown<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Upon her forehead gathers
+now&#8212;</div>
+Ah, does the butcher&#8212;heartless clown&#8212;<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Beget that shadow on her
+brow?</div>
+</div>
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_243"></a>[243]</span></p>
+<div class="line_in_2">A murrain on the tradesman
+churl
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Who caused this fair
+accountant's gloom!</div>
+Just then&#8212;a baby's cry&#8212;my girl<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">Arose and swiftly left the
+room.</div>
+Then in her purse by stratagem<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">I thrust some bills of
+small amounts&#8212;</div>
+She'll think she had forgotten them,<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">And smile again at her
+accounts!</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_245"></a>[245]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus245.jpg" alt="Women reading" />
+<p class="caption"><i>Ah, does the butcher&#8212;heartless clown&#8212;</i><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Beget that shadow
+on her brow?</i></span>
+</p>
+</div>
+
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_246"></a>[246]</span></p>
+<h3>ENGLAND, JULY 1913</h3>
+<p style="text-align: center;">
+To Rupert Brooke
+</p>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap"> England</span>, England
+... that July<br />
+How placidly the days went by!<br />
+<br />
+Two years ago (how long it seems)<br />
+In that dear England of my dreams<br />
+I loved and smoked and laughed amain<br />
+And rode to Cambridge in the rain.<br />
+A careless godlike life was there!<br />
+To spin the roads with <i>Shotover</i>,<br />
+To dream while punting on the Cam,<br />
+To lie, and never give a damn<br />
+For anything but comradeship<br />
+And books to read and ale to sip,<br />
+And shandygaff at every inn<br />
+When <i>The Gorilla</i> rode to Lynn!<br />
+O world of wheel and pipe and oar<br />
+In those old days before the War.<br />
+<br />
+O poignant echoes of that time!<br />
+I hear the Oxford towers chime,<br />
+The throbbing of those mellow bells<br />
+And all the sweet old English smells&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+The Deben water, quick with salt,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_247"></a>[247]</span>
+<br />
+The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt;<br />
+The Suffolk villages, serene<br />
+With lads at cricket on the green,<br />
+And Wytham strawberries, so ripe,<br />
+And <i>Murray's Mixture</i> in my pipe!<br />
+<br />
+In those dear days, in those dear days,<br />
+All pleasant lay the country ways;<br />
+The echoes of our stalwart mirth<br />
+Went echoing wide around the earth<br />
+And in an endless bliss of sun<br />
+We lay and watched the river run.<br />
+And you by Cam and I by Isis<br />
+Were happy with our own devices.<br />
+<br />
+Ah, can we ever know again<br />
+Such friends as were those chosen men,<br />
+Such men to drink, to bike, to smoke with,<br />
+To worship with, or lie and joke with?<br />
+Never again, my lads, we'll see<br />
+The life we led at twenty-three.<br />
+Never again, perhaps, shall I<br />
+Go flashing bravely down the High<br />
+To see, in that transcendent hour,<br />
+The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.<br />
+<br />
+Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_248"></a>[248]</span>
+<br />
+Those endless afternoons, and all<br />
+Your Cambridge&#8212;which I loved as one<br />
+Who was her grandson, not her son.<br />
+O ripples where the river slacks<br />
+In greening eddies round the "backs";<br />
+Where men have dreamed such gallant things<br />
+Under the old stone bridge at <i>King's</i>.<br />
+Or leaned to feed the silver swans<br />
+By the tennis meads at <i>John's</i>.<br />
+O Granta's water, cold and fresh,<br />
+Kissing the warm and eager flesh<br />
+Under the willow's breathing stir&#8212;<br />
+The bathing pool at <i>Grantchester</i>....<br />
+What words can tell, what words can praise<br />
+The burly savor of those days!<br />
+<br />
+Dear singing lad, those days are dead<br />
+And gone for aye your golden head;<br />
+And many other well-loved men<br />
+Will never dine in Hall again.<br />
+I too have lived remembered hours<br />
+In Cambridge; heard the summer showers<br />
+Make music on old <i>Heffer's</i> pane<br />
+While I was reading Pepys or Taine.<br />
+Through <i>Trumpington</i> and <i>Grantchester</i><br />
+<br />
+I used to roll on <i>Shotover</i>;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_249"></a>[249]</span>
+<br />
+At <i>Hauxton Bridge</i> my lamp would light<br />
+And sleep in <i>Royston</i> for the night.<br />
+Or to <i>Five Miles from Anywhere</i><br />
+I used to scull; and sit and swear<br />
+While wasps attacked my bread and jam<br />
+Those summer evenings on the Cam.<br />
+(O crispy English cottage-loaves<br />
+Baked in ovens, not in stoves!<br />
+O white unsalted English butter<br />
+O satisfaction none can utter!)...<br />
+<br />
+To think that while those joys I knew<br />
+In Cambridge, I did not know you.<br />
+<br />
+<div class="line_in_1">July, 1915.</div>
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_250"></a>[250]</span></p>
+<h3>CASUALTY</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">A</span><span class="smcap"> well-sharp'd</span>
+pencil leads one on to write:<br />
+When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed;<br />
+The primed occasion puts the deed in sight:<br />
+Who steals a book who knows not how to read?<br />
+<br />
+Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep?<br />
+A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife?<br />
+Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep<br />
+Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_251"></a>[251]</span></p>
+<h3>A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">O</span><span class="smcap"> noble</span> gracious
+English tongue<br />
+Whose fibers we so sadly twist,<br />
+For caitiff measures he has sung<br />
+Have pardon on the journalist.<br />
+<br />
+For mumbled meter, leaden pun,<br />
+For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word,<br />
+Have pity on this graceless one&#8212;<br />
+Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord!<br />
+<br />
+The metaphors and tropes depart,<br />
+Our little clippings fade and bleach:<br />
+There is no virtue and no art<br />
+Save in straightforward Saxon speech.<br />
+<br />
+Yet not in ignorance or spite,<br />
+Nor with Thy noble past forgot<br />
+We sinned: indeed we had to write<br />
+To keep a fire beneath the pot.<br />
+<br />
+Then grant that in the coming time,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_252"></a>[252]</span>
+<br />
+With inky hand and polished sleeve,<br />
+In lucid prose or honest rhyme<br />
+Some worthy task we may achieve&#8212;<br />
+<br />
+Some pinnacled and marbled phrase,<br />
+Some lyric, breaking like the sea,<br />
+That we may learn, not hoping praise,<br />
+The gift of Thy simplicity.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_253"></a>[253]</span></p>
+<h3>PRELIMINARY INSTRUCTIONS FOR A FUNERAL SERVICE: BEING A POEM
+IN FOUR STANZAS</h3>
+<div class="line_in_2"><span class="dropcap">S</span><span class="smcap">ay</span> this poor fool
+misfeatured all his days,<br />
+And could not mend his ways;<br />
+And say he trod<br />
+Most heavily upon the corns of God.<br />
+<br />
+But also say that in his clabbered brain<br />
+There was the essential pain&#8212;<br />
+The idiot's vow<br />
+To tell his troubled Truth, no matter how.<br />
+<br />
+Unhappy fool, you say, with pitiful air:<br />
+Who was he, then, and where?<br />
+Ah, you divine<br />
+He lives in your heart, as he lives in mine.
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_254"></a>[254]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/illus256.jpg" alt="To bed" />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="pg_255"></a>[255]</span></p>
+<div class="figcover">
+<img src="images/endpaper.jpg" alt="end paper" />
+</div>
+<hr />
+<p>Transcribers notes</p>
+<p>Kept to original format</p>
+<p>Page 97 to a discarded mirror - image added and text
+translated from mirror image</p>
+
+<pre>
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
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+</body></html>
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+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #37852 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37852)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Chimneysmoke
+
+Author: Christopher Morley
+
+Illustrator: Thomas Fogarty
+
+Release Date: October 26, 2011 [EBook #37852]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIMNEYSMOKE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Steven Brown and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+  Transcribers Notes:
+
+  Bold faced text shown as: =abcde=
+  Italics text shown as: _abcde_
+  Unusual fonts shown as: _abcde_
+
+  [Illustrations:] have been moved to end of poem in all cases.
+
+  There are two instances of Greek in the text - π has been used.
+
+
+  *   *   *   *   *
+
+
+
+
+  [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.)
+
+
+  Where once he measured camphor, glycerine,
+  Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars,
+  And all the oils and essences so keen
+  That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars--
+  Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile,
+  The master pharmacist of joy and pain
+  Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile
+  And laughter that dissolves in tears again.
+
+  O brave apothecary! You who knew
+  What dark and acid doses life prefers
+  And yet with friendly face resolved to brew
+  These sparkling potions for your customers--
+  In each prescription your Physician writ
+  You poured your rich compassion and your wit!
+
+
+
+
+  FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET (1816)
+
+  "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."
+
+
+  I knew a scientist, an engineer,
+  Student of tensile strengths and calculus,
+  A man who loved a cantilever truss
+  And always wore a pencil on his ear.
+  My friend believed that poets all were queer,
+  And literary folk ridiculous;
+  But one night, when it chanced that three of us
+  Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.
+
+  Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!
+  His eager mind reached for it and took hold.
+  Ten years are by: I see him now and then,
+  And at alumni dinners, if cajoled,
+  He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:--
+  _Much have I travelled in the realms of gold._
+
+
+
+
+  TWO O'CLOCK
+
+
+  Night after night goes by: and clocks still chime
+    And stars are changing patterns in the dark,
+  And watches tick, and over-puissant Time
+    Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark,
+  The trains that roar and rattle in the night,
+    The very cats that prowl, all quiet find
+  And leave the darkness empty, silent quite:
+    Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.
+
+  So all things end: and what is left at last?
+    Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor,
+  A memory of easy days gone past,
+    A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore--
+  And in the darkened room I lean to know
+    How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
+
+
+
+
+  THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER
+
+
+  Ah very sweet! If news should come to you
+  Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve,
+  That the great Manager had made me leave
+  To travel on some territory new;
+  And that, whatever homeward winds there blew,
+  I could not touch your hand again, nor heave
+  The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave
+  Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....
+
+  Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind
+  Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could
+  Remember rightly, and forget aright?
+  Remember just your lad, uncouthly good,
+  Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?
+  Could you remember him as always kind?
+
+
+
+
+  THE WEDDED LOVER
+
+
+  I read in our old journals of the days
+  When our first love was April-sweet and new,
+  How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew
+  Despite the adverse time; and our amaze
+  At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise
+  That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue
+  The heaven arched us in, and all we knew
+  Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.
+
+  They said by now the path would be more steep,
+  The sunsets paler and less mild the air;
+  Rightly we heeded not: it was not true.
+  We will not tell the secret--let it keep.
+  I know not how I thought those days so fair
+  These being so much fairer, spent with you.
+
+
+
+
+  TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST
+
+
+  When we were parted, sweet, and darkness came,
+  I used to strike a match, and hold the flame
+  Before your picture and would breathless mark
+  The answering glimmer of the tiny spark
+  That brought to life the magic of your eyes,
+  Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.
+
+  Holding that mimic torch before your shrine
+  I used to light your eyes and make them mine;
+  Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky,
+  Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply;
+  Summon your lips from far across the sea
+  Bidding them live a twilight hour with me.
+
+  Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom,
+  Lo--you were with me in the darkened room.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARLES AND MARY
+
+  (December 27, 1834.)
+
+
+  Lamb died just before I left town, and Mr. Ryle of
+the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me....
+He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the
+event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so
+that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his
+beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.
+
+  --Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
+
+
+  I hear their voices still: the stammering one
+  Struggling with some absurdity of jest;
+  Her quiet words that puzzle and protest
+  Against the latest outrage of his fun.
+  So wise, so simple--has she never guessed
+  That through his laughter, love and terror run?
+  For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed,
+  He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.
+
+  Through all those years it was his task to keep
+  Her gentle heart serenely mystified.
+  If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride--
+  When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead,
+  She innocently looked. "I always said
+  That Charles is really handsome when asleep."
+
+
+
+
+  TO A GRANDMOTHER
+
+
+  At six o'clock in the evening,
+    The time for lullabies,
+  My son lay on my mother's lap
+    With sleepy, sleepy eyes!
+  (_O drowsy little manny boy,_
+   _With sleepy, sleepy eyes!_)
+
+  I heard her sing, and rock him,
+    And the creak of the swaying chair,
+  And the old dear cadence of the words
+    Came softly down the stair.
+
+  And all the years had vanished,
+    All folly, greed, and stain--
+  The old, old song, the creaking chair,
+    The dearest arms again!
+  (_O lucky little manny boy,_
+   _To feel those arms again!_)
+
+
+
+
+  DIARISTS
+
+
+  They catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now,
+    Is Actual, amid the fugitive;
+  Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how
+    We snare this flying life, and make it live.
+  So to their little pictures, and they sieve
+    Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough,
+  The afterglow that summer sunsets give,
+    The razor concave of a great ship's bow.
+
+  O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!
+    Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.
+  No glittering ink can make this written word
+    Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage
+  And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred
+    The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
+
+
+
+
+ THE LAST SONNET
+
+
+  Suppose one knew that never more might one
+  Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now
+  These fourteen lines were all he could allow
+  To say his message, be forever done;
+  How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,
+  Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase
+  The windy trees, the beauty of his days,
+  Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.
+  How bitter then would be regret and pang
+  For former rhymes he dallied to refine,
+  For every verse that was not crystalline....
+  And if belike this last one feebly rang,
+  Honor and pride would cast it to the floor
+  Facing the judge with what was done before.
+
+
+
+
+  THE SAVAGE
+
+
+  Civilization causes me
+  Alternate fits: disgust and glee.
+
+  Buried in piles of glass and stone
+  My private spirit moves alone,
+
+  Where every day from eight to six
+  I keep alive by hasty tricks.
+
+  But I am simple in my soul;
+  My mind is sullen to control.
+
+  At dusk I smell the scent of earth,
+  And I am dumb--too glad for mirth.
+
+  I know the savors night can give,
+  And then, and then, I live, I live!
+
+  No man is wholly pure and free,
+  For that is not his destiny,
+
+  But though I bend, I will not break:
+  And still be savage, for Truth's sake.
+
+  God damns the easily convinced
+  (Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
+
+
+
+
+  ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH
+
+
+  I stood on the pavement
+    Where I could admire
+  Behind the brown chapel
+    The cream and gold spire.
+
+  Above, gilded Lightning
+    Swam high on his ball--
+  I saw the noon shadow
+    The church of St. Paul.
+
+  And was there a meaning?
+    (My fancy would run),
+  Saint Paul in the shadow,
+    Saint Frank in the sun!
+
+
+
+
+  ADVICE TO A CITY
+
+
+  O city, cage your poets! Hem them in
+    And roof them over from the April sky--
+  Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din,
+    And drown their voices with your thunder cry.
+
+  Forbid their free feet on the windy hills,
+    And harness them to daily ruts of stone--
+  (In florists' windows lock the daffodils)
+    And never, never let them be alone!
+
+  For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd,
+    And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit,
+  And granted silence, thought and solitude
+    They (_absit omen!_) might make Song of it.
+
+  So cage them in, and stand about them thick,
+    And keep them busy with their daily bread;
+  And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quick
+    To interrupt them ere the word be said....
+
+  For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage,
+    With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth,
+  Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page,
+    The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!
+
+
+
+
+  THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY
+
+
+  No Malory of old romance,
+    No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,
+  Can equal in rich circumstance
+    This telephone directory.
+
+  No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,
+    No legend of proud knights and dames,
+  Can fill me with such bright surmise
+    As this great book of numbered names!
+
+  How many hearts and lives unknown,
+    Rare damsels pining for a squire,
+  Are waiting for the telephone
+    To ring, and call them to the wire.
+
+  Some wait to hear a loved voice say
+    The news they will rejoice to know
+  At Rome 2637 J
+    Or Marathon 1450!
+
+  And some, perhaps, are stung with fear
+    And answer with reluctant tread:
+  The message they expect to hear
+    Means life or death or daily bread.
+
+  A million hearts here wait our call,
+    All naked to our distant speech--
+  I wish that I could ring them all
+    And have some welcome news for each!
+
+
+
+
+  GREEN ESCAPE
+
+
+  At three o'clock in the afternoon
+    On a hot September day,
+  I began to dream of a highland stream
+    And a frostbit russet tree;
+  Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship
+    (White canvas wet with spray)
+  And the swirling green and milk-foam clean
+    Along her canted lee.
+
+  I heard the quick staccato click
+    Of the typist's pounding keys,
+  And I had to brood of a wind more rude
+    Than that by a motor fanned--
+  And I lay inert in a flannel shirt
+    To watch the rhyming seas
+  Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl
+    On a beach of sun-blanched sand.
+
+  There is no desk shall tame my lust
+    For hills and windy skies;
+  My secret hope of the sea's blue slope
+    No clerkly task shall dull;
+
+  And though I print no echoed hint
+    Of adventures I devise,
+  My eyes still pine for the comely line
+    Of an outbound vessel's hull.
+
+  When I elope with an autumn day
+    And make my green escape,
+  I'll leave my pen to tamer men
+    Who have more docile souls;
+  For forest aisles and office files
+    Have a very different shape,
+  And it's hard to woo the ocean blue
+    In a row of pigeon holes!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _My eyes still pine for the comely line_
+  _Of an outbound vessel's hull._]
+
+
+
+
+  VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS
+
+  (_Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute_
+  _the name of his favorite suburb_)
+
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  How low, how close, they lean!
+  They jostle one another
+  And do their best to please--
+  Indeed, they are so neighborly
+  That in the twilight green
+  One reaches out to pick them
+  Behind the poplar trees.
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  And one particular
+  Bright planet (which is Vesper)
+  Most lucid and serene,
+  Is waiting by the railway bridge,
+  The Good Commuter's Star,
+  The Star of Wise Men coming home
+  On time, at 6:15!
+
+
+
+
+  THE ICE WAGON
+
+
+  I'd like to split the sky that roofs us down,
+  Break through the crystal lid of upper air,
+  And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.
+  I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness
+  Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.
+
+  I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,
+  Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,
+  The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,
+  And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air
+  Down every alley where the children gasp.
+
+  And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons--
+  Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,--
+  And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.
+  In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,
+  Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,
+  With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;
+  Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,
+  And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.
+
+  And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,
+  A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.
+  My friends and I would chop and splinter open
+  The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,
+  And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,
+  And some would stagger home with it in baskets,
+  And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,
+  Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,
+  Gulping as they slipped down unexpected--
+  Laughing to perceive that secret numbness
+  Amid their small hot persons!
+
+  At every stop would be at least one urchin
+  Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses
+  And hold it up against their silky noses--
+  And they would start, and then decide they liked it.
+
+  Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town
+  Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,
+  Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!
+  Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,
+  A lucky few up sitting with the driver,
+  All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.
+
+  And by the time the wagons were all empty
+  Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,
+  Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.
+  But how we would recall those eager faces,
+  Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,
+  The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.
+  Then we would know that arms were made for aching--
+
+  I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
+
+
+
+
+  AT A MOVIE THEATRE
+
+
+  How well he spoke who coined the phrase
+    _The picture palace!_ Aye, in sooth
+  A palace, where men's weary days
+    Are crowned with kingliness of youth.
+
+  Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,
+    Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,
+  We watch a wand of brightness limn
+    The old heroics of the heart.
+
+  Romance again hath us in thrall
+    And Love is sweet and always true,
+  And in the darkness of the hall
+    Hands clasp--as they were meant to do.
+
+  Remote from peevish joys and ills
+    Our souls, _pro tem_, are purged and free:
+  We see the sun on western hills,
+    The crumbling tumult of the sea.
+
+  We are the blond that maidens crave,
+    Well balanced at a dozen banks;
+  By sleight of hand we haste to save
+    A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!
+
+  Alas, perhaps our instinct feels
+    Life is not all it might have been,
+  So we applaud fantastic reels
+    Of shadow, cast upon a screen!
+
+
+
+
+  SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE
+
+
+  I
+
+  Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread,
+    All apprehensive of some hideous sight:
+  Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,
+    Forgot his gas and let it burn all night--
+  The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,
+    She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,
+  And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,
+    Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.
+
+  No League of Nations scheme can make her gay--
+    She knows the rank duplicity of man;
+  Some folks expect clean towels every day,
+    They'll get away with murder if they can!
+  She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)
+  _Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!_
+
+
+  II
+
+
+  Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:
+  They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,
+  They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,
+  They're out all morning, when a body cleans.
+  A man ain't so secretive, never cares
+  What kind of private papers he leaves lay,
+  So I can get a line on his affairs
+  And dope out whether he is likely pay.
+  But women! Say, they surely get my bug!
+  They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,
+  Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,
+  And fry marshmallows when their callers come.
+  They always are behindhand with their rents--
+  Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _A man ain't so secretive, never cares_
+  _What kind of private papers he leaves lay_--]
+
+
+
+
+  THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)
+
+
+  About these roaring cylinders
+    Where leaping words and paper mate,
+  A sudden glory moves and stirs--
+    An inky cataract in spate!
+
+  What voice for falsehood or for truth,
+    What hearts attentive to be stirred--
+  How dimly understood, in sooth,
+    The power of the printed word!
+
+  These flashing webs and cogs of steel
+    Have shaken empires, routed kings,
+  Yet never turn too fast to feel
+    The tragedies of humble things.
+
+  O words, be strict in honesty,
+    Be just and simple and serene;
+  O rhymes, sing true, or you will be
+    Unworthy of this great machine!
+
+
+
+
+  DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?
+
+
+  Across the court there rises the back wall
+  Of the Magna Carta Apartments.
+  The other evening the people in the apartment opposite
+  Had forgotten to draw their curtains.
+  I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,
+  The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,
+  The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands
+  Outstretched in busy gesture.
+
+  It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;
+  So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.
+  They were four: an elderly couple,
+  A young man, and a girl--with lovely shoulders
+  Mellow in the glow of the lamp.
+  They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.
+
+  At last the older two left the room.
+  The boy and girl looked at each other....
+  Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.
+
+  Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!
+  A little later I went down the street to the movies,
+  And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.
+  And as I watched them I felt like God--
+  Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
+
+
+
+
+  RAPID TRANSIT
+
+  (To Stephen Vincent Benét.)
+
+
+  Climbing is easy and swift on Parnassus!
+  Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;
+  There found a book of verse by a young poet.
+  Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!
+  Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting--
+  Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,
+  Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,
+  Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,
+  Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,
+  Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.
+  I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;
+  Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.
+  Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood--
+  Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,
+  Trying my trinkets with those of his finding--
+  _And as I left the bookshop_
+  _My pipe was still warm in my hand._
+
+
+
+
+  CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW
+
+
+  Colin, worshipping some frail,
+    By self-deprecation sways her:
+  Calls himself unworthy male,
+    Hardly even fit to praise her.
+
+  But this tactic insincere
+    In the upshot greatly grieves him
+  When he finds the lovely dear
+    Quite implicitly believes him.
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS
+
+  _Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses_
+
+
+  If sometimes, in a random phrase
+    (For variation in my ditty),
+  I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise
+    And seem to intimate them pretty--
+
+  It is because I do not dare
+    With too unmixed reiteration
+  To sing the browner eyes and hair
+    That are my true intoxication.
+
+  Know, then, that I consider brown
+    For ladies' eyes, the only color;
+  And deem all other orbs in town
+    (Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.
+
+  I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;
+    While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,
+  How insubstantial was their cheer--
+    It was of yours that I was thinking!
+
+
+
+
+  PEACE
+
+
+  What is this Peace
+    That statesmen sign?
+  How I have sought
+    To make it mine.
+
+  Where groaning cities
+    Clang and glow
+  I hunted, hunted,
+    Peace to know.
+
+  And still I saw
+    Where I passed by
+  Discarded hearts,--
+    Heard children cry.
+
+  By willowed waters
+    Brimmed with rain
+  I thought to capture
+    Peace again.
+
+  I sat me down
+    My Peace to hoard,
+  But Beauty pricked me
+    With a sword.
+
+  For in the stillness
+    Something stirred,
+  And I was crippled
+    For a word.
+
+  There is no peace
+    A man can find;
+  The anguish sits
+    His heart behind.
+
+  The eyes he loves,
+    The perfect breast,
+  Too exquisite
+    To give him rest.
+
+  This is his curse
+    Since brain began.
+  His penalty
+    For being man.
+
+    May, 1919
+
+
+
+
+  SONG, IN DEPRECATION
+  OF PULCHRITUDE
+
+
+
+  Beauty (so the poets say),
+    Thou art joy and solace great;
+  Long ago, and far away
+    Thou art safe to contemplate,
+
+  Beauty. But when now and here,
+    Visible and close to touch,
+  All too perilously near,
+    Thou tormentest us too much!
+
+  In a picture, in a song,
+    In a novel's conjured scenes,
+  Beauty, that's where you belong,
+    Where perspective intervenes.
+
+  But, my dear, in rosy fact
+    Your appeal I have to shirk--
+  You disturb me, and distract
+    My attention from my work!
+
+
+
+
+  MOUNTED POLICE
+
+
+  Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,
+    Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;
+  He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"
+    And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.
+
+  Inured to every mood of fool and crank,
+    Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:
+  The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,
+    A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.
+
+  O knight commander of our city stress,
+    Little you know how picturesque you are!
+  We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:
+    "_Say, that's a helva place to park your car!_"
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Mounted Police._]
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT
+  HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY
+
+
+  Why did not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?
+  It would have been delight to me
+  If _natus ante_ 1603.
+
+  My stuff would not be soon forgotten
+  If I could write like Harry Wotton.
+
+  I wish that I could wield the pen
+  Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.
+
+  I would not fear the ticking clock
+  If I were Browne of Tavistock.
+
+  For blithe conceits I would not worry
+  If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.
+
+  I wish (I hope I am not silly?)
+  That I could juggle words like Lyly.
+
+  I envy many a lyric champion,
+  I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.
+
+  I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,
+  I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.
+
+  My wits are dull as an old Barlow--
+  I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.
+
+  In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,
+  Or some one else of that same kidney.
+
+  For if I were, my lady's looks
+    And all my lyric special pleading
+  Would be in all the future books,
+    And called, at college, _Required Reading_.
+
+
+
+
+  THE INTRUDER
+
+
+  As I sat, to sift my dreaming
+    To the meet and needed word,
+  Came a merry Interruption
+    With insistence to be heard.
+
+  Smiling stood a maid beside me,
+    Half alluring and half shy;
+  Soft the white hint of her bosom--
+    Escapade was in her eye.
+
+  "I must not be so invaded,"
+    (In an anger then I cried)--
+  "Can't you see that I am busy?
+    Tempting creature, stay outside!
+
+  "Pearly rascal, I am writing:
+    I am now composing verse--
+  Fie on antic invitation:
+    Wanton, vanish--fly--disperse!
+
+  "Baggage, in my godlike moment
+    What have I to do with thee?"
+  And she laughed as she departed--
+    "I am Poetry," said she.
+
+
+
+
+  TIT FOR TAT
+
+
+  I often pass a gracious tree
+    Whose name I can't identify,
+  But still I bow, in courtesy
+    It waves a bough, in kind reply.
+
+  I do not know your name, O tree
+    (Are you a hemlock or a pine?)
+  But why should that embarrass me?
+    Quite probably you don't know mine.
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Courtesy_]
+
+
+
+
+  SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
+
+
+  I'm glad our house is a little house,
+    Not too tall nor too wide:
+  I'm glad the hovering butterflies
+    Feel free to come inside.
+
+  Our little house is a friendly house.
+    It is not shy or vain;
+  It gossips with the talking trees,
+    And makes friends with the rain.
+
+  And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green
+    Against our whited walls,
+  And in the phlox, the courteous bees
+    Are paying duty calls.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PLUMPUPPETS
+
+
+  When little heads weary have gone to their bed,
+  When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,
+  Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest
+  The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,_
+  _The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;_
+  _They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--_
+    _The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+  The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:
+  They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;
+  They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,
+  And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
+
+  No matter what troubles have bothered the day,
+  Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;
+  Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt--
+  Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,
+  The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;
+  They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--
+  The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+
+  [Illustration: _The Plumpuppets_]
+
+
+
+
+  DANDY DANDELION
+
+
+  When Dandy Dandelion wakes
+    And combs his yellow hair,
+  The ant his cup of dewdrop takes
+    And sets his bed to air;
+  The worm hides in a quilt of dirt
+    To keep the thrush away,
+  The beetle dons his pansy shirt--
+    They know that it is day!
+
+  And caterpillars haste to milk
+    The cowslips in the grass;
+  The spider, in his web of silk,
+    Looks out for flies that pass.
+  These humble people leap from bed,
+    They know the night is done:
+  When Dandy spreads his golden head
+    They think he is the sun!
+
+  Dear Dandy truly does not smell
+    As sweet as some bouquets;
+  No florist gathers him to sell,
+    He withers in a vase;
+  Yet in the grass he's emperor,
+    And lord of high renown;
+  And grateful little folk adore
+    His bright and shining crown.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HIGH CHAIR
+
+
+  Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
+  Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
+  _He'd_ drink it. You want to be big and fat
+  Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)
+  Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
+  But you must finish first. Come, drink it up--
+  (_Splash_!) Oh, you _must_ keep both hands on the cup.
+  All gone? Now for the prunes....
+                               And so it goes.
+
+  This is the battlefield that parents know,
+  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]
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Chimneysmoke
+
+Author: Christopher Morley
+
+Illustrator: Thomas Fogarty
+
+Release Date: October 26, 2011 [EBook #37852]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIMNEYSMOKE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Steven Brown and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+  Transcribers Notes:
+
+  Bold faced text shown as: =abcde=
+  Italics text shown as: _abcde_
+  Unusual fonts shown as: _abcde_
+
+  [Illustrations:] have been moved to end of poem in all cases.
+
+  There are two instances of Greek in the text - IEuro has been used.
+
+
+  *   *   *   *   *
+
+
+
+
+  [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-mAcchA(C) 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 cafA(C),
+    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 vertebrA| 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 rA'tisseries;
+  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 IEuro 3-point-14159
+  And knew my lovely circuit 2 IEuro 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-A -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.)
+
+
+  Where once he measured camphor, glycerine,
+  Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars,
+  And all the oils and essences so keen
+  That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars--
+  Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile,
+  The master pharmacist of joy and pain
+  Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile
+  And laughter that dissolves in tears again.
+
+  O brave apothecary! You who knew
+  What dark and acid doses life prefers
+  And yet with friendly face resolved to brew
+  These sparkling potions for your customers--
+  In each prescription your Physician writ
+  You poured your rich compassion and your wit!
+
+
+
+
+  FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET (1816)
+
+  "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."
+
+
+  I knew a scientist, an engineer,
+  Student of tensile strengths and calculus,
+  A man who loved a cantilever truss
+  And always wore a pencil on his ear.
+  My friend believed that poets all were queer,
+  And literary folk ridiculous;
+  But one night, when it chanced that three of us
+  Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.
+
+  Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!
+  His eager mind reached for it and took hold.
+  Ten years are by: I see him now and then,
+  And at alumni dinners, if cajoled,
+  He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:--
+  _Much have I travelled in the realms of gold._
+
+
+
+
+  TWO O'CLOCK
+
+
+  Night after night goes by: and clocks still chime
+    And stars are changing patterns in the dark,
+  And watches tick, and over-puissant Time
+    Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark,
+  The trains that roar and rattle in the night,
+    The very cats that prowl, all quiet find
+  And leave the darkness empty, silent quite:
+    Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.
+
+  So all things end: and what is left at last?
+    Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor,
+  A memory of easy days gone past,
+    A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore--
+  And in the darkened room I lean to know
+    How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.
+
+
+
+
+  THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER
+
+
+  Ah very sweet! If news should come to you
+  Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve,
+  That the great Manager had made me leave
+  To travel on some territory new;
+  And that, whatever homeward winds there blew,
+  I could not touch your hand again, nor heave
+  The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave
+  Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....
+
+  Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind
+  Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could
+  Remember rightly, and forget aright?
+  Remember just your lad, uncouthly good,
+  Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?
+  Could you remember him as always kind?
+
+
+
+
+  THE WEDDED LOVER
+
+
+  I read in our old journals of the days
+  When our first love was April-sweet and new,
+  How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew
+  Despite the adverse time; and our amaze
+  At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise
+  That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue
+  The heaven arched us in, and all we knew
+  Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.
+
+  They said by now the path would be more steep,
+  The sunsets paler and less mild the air;
+  Rightly we heeded not: it was not true.
+  We will not tell the secret--let it keep.
+  I know not how I thought those days so fair
+  These being so much fairer, spent with you.
+
+
+
+
+  TO YOU, REMEMBERING THE PAST
+
+
+  When we were parted, sweet, and darkness came,
+  I used to strike a match, and hold the flame
+  Before your picture and would breathless mark
+  The answering glimmer of the tiny spark
+  That brought to life the magic of your eyes,
+  Their wistful tenderness, their glad surprise.
+
+  Holding that mimic torch before your shrine
+  I used to light your eyes and make them mine;
+  Watch them like stars set in a lonely sky,
+  Whisper my heart out, yearning for reply;
+  Summon your lips from far across the sea
+  Bidding them live a twilight hour with me.
+
+  Then, when the match was shrivelled into gloom,
+  Lo--you were with me in the darkened room.
+
+
+
+
+  CHARLES AND MARY
+
+  (December 27, 1834.)
+
+
+  Lamb died just before I left town, and Mr. Ryle of
+the E. India House, one of his extors., notified it to me....
+He said Miss L. was resigned and composed at the
+event, but it was from her malady, then in mild type, so
+that when she saw her brother dead, she observed on his
+beauty when asleep and apprehended nothing further.
+
+  --Letter of John Rickman, 24 January, 1835.
+
+
+  I hear their voices still: the stammering one
+  Struggling with some absurdity of jest;
+  Her quiet words that puzzle and protest
+  Against the latest outrage of his fun.
+  So wise, so simple--has she never guessed
+  That through his laughter, love and terror run?
+  For when her trouble came, and darkness pressed,
+  He smiled, and fought her madness with a pun.
+
+  Through all those years it was his task to keep
+  Her gentle heart serenely mystified.
+  If Fate's an artist, this should be his pride--
+  When, in that Christmas season, he lay dead,
+  She innocently looked. "I always said
+  That Charles is really handsome when asleep."
+
+
+
+
+  TO A GRANDMOTHER
+
+
+  At six o'clock in the evening,
+    The time for lullabies,
+  My son lay on my mother's lap
+    With sleepy, sleepy eyes!
+  (_O drowsy little manny boy,_
+   _With sleepy, sleepy eyes!_)
+
+  I heard her sing, and rock him,
+    And the creak of the swaying chair,
+  And the old dear cadence of the words
+    Came softly down the stair.
+
+  And all the years had vanished,
+    All folly, greed, and stain--
+  The old, old song, the creaking chair,
+    The dearest arms again!
+  (_O lucky little manny boy,_
+   _To feel those arms again!_)
+
+
+
+
+  DIARISTS
+
+
+  They catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now,
+    Is Actual, amid the fugitive;
+  Take ink and pen (they say) for that is how
+    We snare this flying life, and make it live.
+  So to their little pictures, and they sieve
+    Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough,
+  The afterglow that summer sunsets give,
+    The razor concave of a great ship's bow.
+
+  O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!
+    Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.
+  No glittering ink can make this written word
+    Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage
+  And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred
+    The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.
+
+
+
+
+ THE LAST SONNET
+
+
+  Suppose one knew that never more might one
+  Put pen to sonnet, well loved task; that now
+  These fourteen lines were all he could allow
+  To say his message, be forever done;
+  How he would scan the word, the line, the rhyme,
+  Intent to sum in dearly chosen phrase
+  The windy trees, the beauty of his days,
+  Life's pride and pathos in one verse sublime.
+  How bitter then would be regret and pang
+  For former rhymes he dallied to refine,
+  For every verse that was not crystalline....
+  And if belike this last one feebly rang,
+  Honor and pride would cast it to the floor
+  Facing the judge with what was done before.
+
+
+
+
+  THE SAVAGE
+
+
+  Civilization causes me
+  Alternate fits: disgust and glee.
+
+  Buried in piles of glass and stone
+  My private spirit moves alone,
+
+  Where every day from eight to six
+  I keep alive by hasty tricks.
+
+  But I am simple in my soul;
+  My mind is sullen to control.
+
+  At dusk I smell the scent of earth,
+  And I am dumb--too glad for mirth.
+
+  I know the savors night can give,
+  And then, and then, I live, I live!
+
+  No man is wholly pure and free,
+  For that is not his destiny,
+
+  But though I bend, I will not break:
+  And still be savage, for Truth's sake.
+
+  God damns the easily convinced
+  (Like Pilate, when his hands he rinsed).
+
+
+
+
+  ST. PAUL'S AND WOOLWORTH
+
+
+  I stood on the pavement
+    Where I could admire
+  Behind the brown chapel
+    The cream and gold spire.
+
+  Above, gilded Lightning
+    Swam high on his ball--
+  I saw the noon shadow
+    The church of St. Paul.
+
+  And was there a meaning?
+    (My fancy would run),
+  Saint Paul in the shadow,
+    Saint Frank in the sun!
+
+
+
+
+  ADVICE TO A CITY
+
+
+  O city, cage your poets! Hem them in
+    And roof them over from the April sky--
+  Clatter them round with babble, ceaseless din,
+    And drown their voices with your thunder cry.
+
+  Forbid their free feet on the windy hills,
+    And harness them to daily ruts of stone--
+  (In florists' windows lock the daffodils)
+    And never, never let them be alone!
+
+  For they are curst, said poets, curst and lewd,
+    And freedom gives their tongues uncanny wit,
+  And granted silence, thought and solitude
+    They (_absit omen!_) might make Song of it.
+
+  So cage them in, and stand about them thick,
+    And keep them busy with their daily bread;
+  And should their eyes seem strange, ah, then be quick
+    To interrupt them ere the word be said....
+
+  For, if their hearts burn with sufficient rage,
+    With wasted sunsets and frustrated youth,
+  Some day they'll cry, on some disturbing page,
+    The savage, sweet, unpalatable truth!
+
+
+
+
+  THE TELEPHONE DIRECTORY
+
+
+  No Malory of old romance,
+    No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,
+  Can equal in rich circumstance
+    This telephone directory.
+
+  No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,
+    No legend of proud knights and dames,
+  Can fill me with such bright surmise
+    As this great book of numbered names!
+
+  How many hearts and lives unknown,
+    Rare damsels pining for a squire,
+  Are waiting for the telephone
+    To ring, and call them to the wire.
+
+  Some wait to hear a loved voice say
+    The news they will rejoice to know
+  At Rome 2637 J
+    Or Marathon 1450!
+
+  And some, perhaps, are stung with fear
+    And answer with reluctant tread:
+  The message they expect to hear
+    Means life or death or daily bread.
+
+  A million hearts here wait our call,
+    All naked to our distant speech--
+  I wish that I could ring them all
+    And have some welcome news for each!
+
+
+
+
+  GREEN ESCAPE
+
+
+  At three o'clock in the afternoon
+    On a hot September day,
+  I began to dream of a highland stream
+    And a frostbit russet tree;
+  Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship
+    (White canvas wet with spray)
+  And the swirling green and milk-foam clean
+    Along her canted lee.
+
+  I heard the quick staccato click
+    Of the typist's pounding keys,
+  And I had to brood of a wind more rude
+    Than that by a motor fanned--
+  And I lay inert in a flannel shirt
+    To watch the rhyming seas
+  Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl
+    On a beach of sun-blanched sand.
+
+  There is no desk shall tame my lust
+    For hills and windy skies;
+  My secret hope of the sea's blue slope
+    No clerkly task shall dull;
+
+  And though I print no echoed hint
+    Of adventures I devise,
+  My eyes still pine for the comely line
+    Of an outbound vessel's hull.
+
+  When I elope with an autumn day
+    And make my green escape,
+  I'll leave my pen to tamer men
+    Who have more docile souls;
+  For forest aisles and office files
+    Have a very different shape,
+  And it's hard to woo the ocean blue
+    In a row of pigeon holes!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _My eyes still pine for the comely line_
+  _Of an outbound vessel's hull._]
+
+
+
+
+  VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS
+
+  (_Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute_
+  _the name of his favorite suburb_)
+
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  How low, how close, they lean!
+  They jostle one another
+  And do their best to please--
+  Indeed, they are so neighborly
+  That in the twilight green
+  One reaches out to pick them
+  Behind the poplar trees.
+
+  The stars are kind to Marathon,
+  And one particular
+  Bright planet (which is Vesper)
+  Most lucid and serene,
+  Is waiting by the railway bridge,
+  The Good Commuter's Star,
+  The Star of Wise Men coming home
+  On time, at 6:15!
+
+
+
+
+  THE ICE WAGON
+
+
+  I'd like to split the sky that roofs us down,
+  Break through the crystal lid of upper air,
+  And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.
+  I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness
+  Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.
+
+  I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,
+  Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,
+  The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,
+  And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air
+  Down every alley where the children gasp.
+
+  And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons--
+  Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,--
+  And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.
+  In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,
+  Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,
+  With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;
+  Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,
+  And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.
+
+  And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,
+  A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.
+  My friends and I would chop and splinter open
+  The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,
+  And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,
+  And some would stagger home with it in baskets,
+  And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,
+  Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,
+  Gulping as they slipped down unexpected--
+  Laughing to perceive that secret numbness
+  Amid their small hot persons!
+
+  At every stop would be at least one urchin
+  Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses
+  And hold it up against their silky noses--
+  And they would start, and then decide they liked it.
+
+  Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town
+  Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,
+  Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!
+  Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,
+  A lucky few up sitting with the driver,
+  All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.
+
+  And by the time the wagons were all empty
+  Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,
+  Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.
+  But how we would recall those eager faces,
+  Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,
+  The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.
+  Then we would know that arms were made for aching--
+
+  I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
+
+
+
+
+  AT A MOVIE THEATRE
+
+
+  How well he spoke who coined the phrase
+    _The picture palace!_ Aye, in sooth
+  A palace, where men's weary days
+    Are crowned with kingliness of youth.
+
+  Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,
+    Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,
+  We watch a wand of brightness limn
+    The old heroics of the heart.
+
+  Romance again hath us in thrall
+    And Love is sweet and always true,
+  And in the darkness of the hall
+    Hands clasp--as they were meant to do.
+
+  Remote from peevish joys and ills
+    Our souls, _pro tem_, are purged and free:
+  We see the sun on western hills,
+    The crumbling tumult of the sea.
+
+  We are the blond that maidens crave,
+    Well balanced at a dozen banks;
+  By sleight of hand we haste to save
+    A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!
+
+  Alas, perhaps our instinct feels
+    Life is not all it might have been,
+  So we applaud fantastic reels
+    Of shadow, cast upon a screen!
+
+
+
+
+  SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE
+
+
+  I
+
+  Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread,
+    All apprehensive of some hideous sight:
+  Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,
+    Forgot his gas and let it burn all night--
+  The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,
+    She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,
+  And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,
+    Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.
+
+  No League of Nations scheme can make her gay--
+    She knows the rank duplicity of man;
+  Some folks expect clean towels every day,
+    They'll get away with murder if they can!
+  She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)
+  _Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!_
+
+
+  II
+
+
+  Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:
+  They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,
+  They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,
+  They're out all morning, when a body cleans.
+  A man ain't so secretive, never cares
+  What kind of private papers he leaves lay,
+  So I can get a line on his affairs
+  And dope out whether he is likely pay.
+  But women! Say, they surely get my bug!
+  They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,
+  Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,
+  And fry marshmallows when their callers come.
+  They always are behindhand with their rents--
+  Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
+
+
+  [Illustration:
+
+  _A man ain't so secretive, never cares_
+  _What kind of private papers he leaves lay_--]
+
+
+
+
+  THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)
+
+
+  About these roaring cylinders
+    Where leaping words and paper mate,
+  A sudden glory moves and stirs--
+    An inky cataract in spate!
+
+  What voice for falsehood or for truth,
+    What hearts attentive to be stirred--
+  How dimly understood, in sooth,
+    The power of the printed word!
+
+  These flashing webs and cogs of steel
+    Have shaken empires, routed kings,
+  Yet never turn too fast to feel
+    The tragedies of humble things.
+
+  O words, be strict in honesty,
+    Be just and simple and serene;
+  O rhymes, sing true, or you will be
+    Unworthy of this great machine!
+
+
+
+
+  DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?
+
+
+  Across the court there rises the back wall
+  Of the Magna Carta Apartments.
+  The other evening the people in the apartment opposite
+  Had forgotten to draw their curtains.
+  I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,
+  The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,
+  The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands
+  Outstretched in busy gesture.
+
+  It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;
+  So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.
+  They were four: an elderly couple,
+  A young man, and a girl--with lovely shoulders
+  Mellow in the glow of the lamp.
+  They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.
+
+  At last the older two left the room.
+  The boy and girl looked at each other....
+  Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.
+
+  Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!
+  A little later I went down the street to the movies,
+  And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.
+  And as I watched them I felt like God--
+  Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
+
+
+
+
+  RAPID TRANSIT
+
+  (To Stephen Vincent BenA(C)t.)
+
+
+  Climbing is easy and swift on Parnassus!
+  Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;
+  There found a book of verse by a young poet.
+  Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!
+  Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting--
+  Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,
+  Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,
+  Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,
+  Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,
+  Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.
+  I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;
+  Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.
+  Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood--
+  Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,
+  Trying my trinkets with those of his finding--
+  _And as I left the bookshop_
+  _My pipe was still warm in my hand._
+
+
+
+
+  CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW
+
+
+  Colin, worshipping some frail,
+    By self-deprecation sways her:
+  Calls himself unworthy male,
+    Hardly even fit to praise her.
+
+  But this tactic insincere
+    In the upshot greatly grieves him
+  When he finds the lovely dear
+    Quite implicitly believes him.
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS
+
+  _Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses_
+
+
+  If sometimes, in a random phrase
+    (For variation in my ditty),
+  I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise
+    And seem to intimate them pretty--
+
+  It is because I do not dare
+    With too unmixed reiteration
+  To sing the browner eyes and hair
+    That are my true intoxication.
+
+  Know, then, that I consider brown
+    For ladies' eyes, the only color;
+  And deem all other orbs in town
+    (Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.
+
+  I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;
+    While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,
+  How insubstantial was their cheer--
+    It was of yours that I was thinking!
+
+
+
+
+  PEACE
+
+
+  What is this Peace
+    That statesmen sign?
+  How I have sought
+    To make it mine.
+
+  Where groaning cities
+    Clang and glow
+  I hunted, hunted,
+    Peace to know.
+
+  And still I saw
+    Where I passed by
+  Discarded hearts,--
+    Heard children cry.
+
+  By willowed waters
+    Brimmed with rain
+  I thought to capture
+    Peace again.
+
+  I sat me down
+    My Peace to hoard,
+  But Beauty pricked me
+    With a sword.
+
+  For in the stillness
+    Something stirred,
+  And I was crippled
+    For a word.
+
+  There is no peace
+    A man can find;
+  The anguish sits
+    His heart behind.
+
+  The eyes he loves,
+    The perfect breast,
+  Too exquisite
+    To give him rest.
+
+  This is his curse
+    Since brain began.
+  His penalty
+    For being man.
+
+    May, 1919
+
+
+
+
+  SONG, IN DEPRECATION
+  OF PULCHRITUDE
+
+
+
+  Beauty (so the poets say),
+    Thou art joy and solace great;
+  Long ago, and far away
+    Thou art safe to contemplate,
+
+  Beauty. But when now and here,
+    Visible and close to touch,
+  All too perilously near,
+    Thou tormentest us too much!
+
+  In a picture, in a song,
+    In a novel's conjured scenes,
+  Beauty, that's where you belong,
+    Where perspective intervenes.
+
+  But, my dear, in rosy fact
+    Your appeal I have to shirk--
+  You disturb me, and distract
+    My attention from my work!
+
+
+
+
+  MOUNTED POLICE
+
+
+  Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,
+    Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;
+  He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"
+    And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.
+
+  Inured to every mood of fool and crank,
+    Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:
+  The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,
+    A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.
+
+  O knight commander of our city stress,
+    Little you know how picturesque you are!
+  We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:
+    "_Say, that's a helva place to park your car!_"
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Mounted Police._]
+
+
+
+
+  TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT
+  HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY
+
+
+  Why did not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?
+  It would have been delight to me
+  If _natus ante_ 1603.
+
+  My stuff would not be soon forgotten
+  If I could write like Harry Wotton.
+
+  I wish that I could wield the pen
+  Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.
+
+  I would not fear the ticking clock
+  If I were Browne of Tavistock.
+
+  For blithe conceits I would not worry
+  If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.
+
+  I wish (I hope I am not silly?)
+  That I could juggle words like Lyly.
+
+  I envy many a lyric champion,
+  I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.
+
+  I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,
+  I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.
+
+  My wits are dull as an old Barlow--
+  I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.
+
+  In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,
+  Or some one else of that same kidney.
+
+  For if I were, my lady's looks
+    And all my lyric special pleading
+  Would be in all the future books,
+    And called, at college, _Required Reading_.
+
+
+
+
+  THE INTRUDER
+
+
+  As I sat, to sift my dreaming
+    To the meet and needed word,
+  Came a merry Interruption
+    With insistence to be heard.
+
+  Smiling stood a maid beside me,
+    Half alluring and half shy;
+  Soft the white hint of her bosom--
+    Escapade was in her eye.
+
+  "I must not be so invaded,"
+    (In an anger then I cried)--
+  "Can't you see that I am busy?
+    Tempting creature, stay outside!
+
+  "Pearly rascal, I am writing:
+    I am now composing verse--
+  Fie on antic invitation:
+    Wanton, vanish--fly--disperse!
+
+  "Baggage, in my godlike moment
+    What have I to do with thee?"
+  And she laughed as she departed--
+    "I am Poetry," said she.
+
+
+
+
+  TIT FOR TAT
+
+
+  I often pass a gracious tree
+    Whose name I can't identify,
+  But still I bow, in courtesy
+    It waves a bough, in kind reply.
+
+  I do not know your name, O tree
+    (Are you a hemlock or a pine?)
+  But why should that embarrass me?
+    Quite probably you don't know mine.
+
+
+  [Illustration: _Courtesy_]
+
+
+
+
+  SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
+
+
+  I'm glad our house is a little house,
+    Not too tall nor too wide:
+  I'm glad the hovering butterflies
+    Feel free to come inside.
+
+  Our little house is a friendly house.
+    It is not shy or vain;
+  It gossips with the talking trees,
+    And makes friends with the rain.
+
+  And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green
+    Against our whited walls,
+  And in the phlox, the courteous bees
+    Are paying duty calls.
+
+
+
+
+  THE PLUMPUPPETS
+
+
+  When little heads weary have gone to their bed,
+  When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,
+  Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest
+  The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,_
+  _The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;_
+  _They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--_
+    _The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+  The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:
+  They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;
+  They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,
+  And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
+
+  No matter what troubles have bothered the day,
+  Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;
+  Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt--
+  Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.
+
+  _If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,
+  The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;
+  They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--
+  The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
+
+
+  [Illustration: _The Plumpuppets_]
+
+
+
+
+  DANDY DANDELION
+
+
+  When Dandy Dandelion wakes
+    And combs his yellow hair,
+  The ant his cup of dewdrop takes
+    And sets his bed to air;
+  The worm hides in a quilt of dirt
+    To keep the thrush away,
+  The beetle dons his pansy shirt--
+    They know that it is day!
+
+  And caterpillars haste to milk
+    The cowslips in the grass;
+  The spider, in his web of silk,
+    Looks out for flies that pass.
+  These humble people leap from bed,
+    They know the night is done:
+  When Dandy spreads his golden head
+    They think he is the sun!
+
+  Dear Dandy truly does not smell
+    As sweet as some bouquets;
+  No florist gathers him to sell,
+    He withers in a vase;
+  Yet in the grass he's emperor,
+    And lord of high renown;
+  And grateful little folk adore
+    His bright and shining crown.
+
+
+
+
+  THE HIGH CHAIR
+
+
+  Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
+  Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
+  _He'd_ drink it. You want to be big and fat
+  Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)
+  Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
+  But you must finish first. Come, drink it up--
+  (_Splash_!) Oh, you _must_ keep both hands on the cup.
+  All gone? Now for the prunes....
+                               And so it goes.
+
+  This is the battlefield that parents know,
+  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]
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chimneysmoke, by Christopher Morley
+
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