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THE Tor STlRJTS YEARN 0\JR JOYS To SHARE ,SO iT iS BEST Mot To satde N ^BuT cladiien their lomc peacetuL 'R^st. The Letter I A word that needs but little spelling Stands for an imp in all minds dwelling, Or rather that selfish, tiresome elf Heard when a man talks of himself. In print ’tis often turned to We, A thin disguise through which we see. As clearly as in milk the fly. He longs to use the letter I. [ 116 ] The Sonnet To one idea cling like death Scarcely stopping to take breath; Touch lightly on Mythology — Avoid like H. Theology — And plethoric Redundancy. Then climb that peak in Darien, And with Balboa and his men Gaze, not silently, around. Remember Sonnets are all sound Save in that slight expectant hush That follows your last fantastic rush. When — if you’ve kept your mind upon it — Your fourteenth line achieves — The Sonnet. [ 117 ] A Sigh Now come the dreamy days of Age When pleasures past as in a haze Seem magnified; And present skies — however fair — Seem overcast; Or if with sunset’s hues made bright, Serve as the prelude to the night — The dreamless Night. [ 118 ] The Weeping Willow Look gently on this old-fashioned tree Where dew has often been replaced by tears For in the drooping of its pendant leaves The tender color of undying Hope appears. [ 119 ] To a Youth This Truth no poet yet hath told, A Truth I now confide to Thee, — That Time is ever Young, not Old, As fresh as Venus from the sea; Ever leading by the hand Priceless Opportunity. Make her your bride or you’ll regret, And yet, and yet, and yet, and yet. It’s only now that I regret. [ 120 ] A Dinner Declined It is so neat — ‘All is illusion.’ Shall I turn this to confusion By advocating things are real? Such as my years that Time doth steal. Do pangs nephritic — nothing seem To those who suffer— or a dream? Age may have Honor, not Immunity. So while I worship the Ideal I must regard my pangs as Real, And give up many pleasant things; Strange ! how my heart with youth still sing^ [ 121 ] Verdun An utter disregard of reason Filled the trenches of Verdun; Science is both good and evil, Neighbors the hospital and gun, As sharper grows Minerva’s lance So greater grows the power of chance. Of all the wasteful remedies War is probably the worst. And yet man turns to it the first; Strange cure in which the doctor kills His patient to remove his ills. We see the mills of God grind slow, Effect from cause of course should flow, But from between the stones how know, Why grind at all, or grind so slow? If the foregoing be a lie Pray cast about — what meets the eye? Alas ! But for its melancholy A smile should greet such frightful folly. [ 122 ] Up to Date There is a power that shapes our ends Rough-hew them as we may, And roughly speaking that is what We see takes place today. For in mysterious ways it moves And wonders it performs In wars and famines, pestilence. And devastating storms. And that is why all people say It moves in a mysterious way. Napoleon was a providence — So it is held today; For Freedom’s bird to George the Third A debt we owe today. Through Bismarcks, Kaisers, Emperors, Great Frederick led the way. Up to the glorious Victories That are taking place today. So have no fear — all must be right Where Kings and Providence unite. No matter on which side you fight Though the Devil is to pay. [ 123 ] Packed Down I make a poem I think fine, Each stanza like long hoarded wine Flowing smooth, mellifluous. Which then I fittingly enshrine In border quaint of twisted wine — A task perhaps superfluous. But never felt I so ‘packed down’ As when a youth from London Town, A writer famed and witty, Passed on my decorated verse A judgement I think rather terse — ‘The border’s very pretty.’ [ 124 ] Quotations Do what you will, three fingers still You must employ in writing, These fingers are — With Grace and Power In various ways uniting ; Also the Head leave not apart. But if from the Heart you wander Right from the start, with all your Art, Your pen and ink you squander. Dear me, today how rhyme will stray! How far on its tide I’ve floated! For what I really meant to say Was — write what will be quoted. (December 17, 1915. Capri.) [ 125 ] The Hermit ‘Gentle Hermit, dost thou dwell Contented in thy little cell?’ ‘Aye, Pilgrim, once I followed long A Siren, listening to her song. Yet never could I reach her side. And now contented I abide.’ ‘But tell me. Pilgrim, why dost roam So far from kindred, far from home?’ ‘Hermit, I see beyond yon sky That cloudless lands forever lie; The road is long and short the day So I must hasten on my way.’ ‘Stay, Pilgrim, stay, ’tis almost night.’ ‘Nay, Hermit, nay — beyond ’tis bright.* Do Sirens’ songs but lead astray? The Hermit’s cell prove but his tomb? Did the Pilgrim find the light Or was he lost in the night’s gloom? Are those bright lands beyond the sky But dreams and not reality? Can Pilgrim tell — can Hermit say. That only Sirens lead astray? [ 126 ] Luna Lone gazer on Earth’s dreaming night, Not always with unmixed delight We gaze on Thee, for thy pale rays Too often bring sad memories Of things forever gone and happier days. [ 127 ] M.D.’s and D.D.’s Doctors, in hunting a disease, Think they have killed or maimed it When truth to tell they’ve merely found An old one and renamed it. So doctors of Divinity Will go on to infinity Trying to cure our moral ills Not with real bread, but with bread-pills. They may be right but I feel sure That Life for us is a long cure Of an inherited disease. And doubt if Dr. Death gives ease. [ 128 ] To William Graham Now V. is very well informed And not averse to show it. Seek not to tell him something new — He’s sure to say ‘I know it.’ V. met one day his old friend G. And gave that opportunity For which G. long had waited, By saying — ‘Well, that’s new to me.’ ‘Thank God,’ was the simple repartee. And G. went off elated. This friend whose name’s unknown to Fame, (Who seems disposed to hide it) Will have, if we but wait, his day. Then V. will say ‘I knew it.’ [ 129 ] Parody Vile Parody’s a parasite, A fungus growth, a dreaded blight That oft the noblest poem spoils. For Parody picks out the best And in it makes an ‘ill bird’s nest.’ This harpy of the clever mind Receives much praise but leaves behind An odor faint as of a tomb. Where lie fair flowers robbed of their bloom. Or sense of something lovely slain That never more will live again. [ 130 ] The Victors In Life’s triumphant chariot ride The strong, and proudly wave aside All sorrow, pain, and grief; Who breathing in the joy of life Cannot conceive that for the strife One life is far too brief. But clad like glorious kings of old In royal purple and in gold. Heed not that pallid slave. That somber slave who mocks their pride. Forever whispering at their side, ‘Thou goest to thy grave.’ [ 131 ] Revery Old! Yes, but not in revery; Young, poor, and gloriously free — Today again I sketching go In thy fair land, Boccaccio. See where my model waits for me Under that ancient olive tree; No classic nymph or dryad she, But a real girl in Tuscany. Yet something classic lingers there, For Zephyrus toys with her hair, And in her softly shaded eyes Amor slyly lurking lies. ‘Cara, the sun is getting low. One kiss more and I must go; But where is that bright-eyed little fellow Who carries my box and my “ombrello”? “Peccato” that reveries must close.’ ‘Quando tomi?’ — ‘God only knows.’ A sketch, and low! a revery; A sweet girl waits beneath a tree Forever in sunny Tuscany; At least in an old man’s memory. [ 132 ] The Land of Song Italy is ‘The Land of Song.’ The question is, good Lord, how long Can one this lasting rumpus stand Before he quits this lovely land? Donkeys begin it in the spring. And urged by Love uproarious sing; The natives then take up the tale. And working or idle never fail To fill the air both day and night With sounds that harrow and afright. The loud picuio’s pounding note — Organic tunes ground out by rote — The beggar’s passionate appeal — Midnight roisterers as they reel — The lover’s agonizing yell — Suggest the usefulness of Hell. Add to which they never scorn To ply the tiresome auto’s horn. Such sounds kept up the live-long year So tire the much abused ear, That one begins at length to long To quit this lovely ‘Land of Song.’ [ 133 ] Why Explain? This picture I need not explain, In Art the last cry makes this plain — ‘Ideas are useless, Subjects vain.’ If good design and vital line But strike the eye and satisfy In modem stuff — it is enough. Then why on earth should I explain? Take out the ‘if’ and good design. Also omit the vital line. But shock, amaze, and strike the eye; You’ll satisfy the ‘Modern Cry.’ [ 134 ] A Fearful Thought How silent Time steals on apace And with his blurring finger doth efface Our little footsteps, leaving not a trace, — Even when stamped on monumental brass Teaching the old lesson ‘All must pass.’ And yet ’tis said our careless words Live on when we are gone; mere breath Defying that dread change called Death. Oh! fearful thought, shall we again Hear our own words? Perchance condemned By our own breath, and learn our doom In hollow whispers from the Tomb? [ 135 ] Alfaru Named by his parents Elihu, One Vedder built in Zanadu Or thereabouts, or did decree A spelling-dome (not spelling-bee) Or home for his new Alphabet Which with its cryptic letters set In-Com-pre-hen-si-ble to Man, Its fated course too quickly ran Down to dark Omega’s Sea. This scheme called Alfaru looked fine And indeed ’twas grand to see. How each Sound had its proper Sign, How each Sign did with Sound agree. Now what occurred this scheme to balk? It made you spell just as you talk. Or made you talk just as you spell. In either case not very well. And so ’twas promptly sent — ^to Hell. [ 136 ] Spelling When by spelling sore beset (My usual quandary) I seek at once without delay My Webster’s Dictionary. High would my Muse delighted soar On pinions light and airy, But what it knows its safety lies In Webster’s Dictionary. Saddled with which my Pegasus Plods on with footsteps wary. How can the poor thing sing and soar Under a Dictionary? [ 137 ] To an Old Man For thee thy race is run; All has been said or done, Thou hast the Victor’s crown, Or — thou hast none. Or stand forgotten. Thy wreath no longer green; Or crowned, thy crown As yet — unseen. Better so, than seen by flashes Clothed in sackcloth and in ashes. [ 138 ] Bitter-Sweet Nature for her sweetest dish Prepares a bitter sauce, For what appears a present gain Turns out a future loss, As when the toiler once set free Turns out to be a Boss. Here an old maxim comes in neat — ‘Accept the Bitter with the Sweet.’ Did not Doubt ask ‘Is this a Law? Or is it but an ancient Saw?’ No ancient Saw — man’s daily meat By a stern Law is — Bitter-Sweet. [ 139 ] Hermits Hermits we know as mild old men Sitting by caves or purling brooks, Engaged in prayer or telling beads, Observing skulls or reading books. Their food, they say, is brought each day To them by ravens or pious rooks. We’re never told of all those others Who fled the world their souls to save, Those poor wandering half-crazed brothers Who found in the desert but a grave. ’Tis always the blessed ones who saw The Heavens opening to their eyes And Angels bright, with crowns and songs Welcoming them to paradise. [ 140 ] WHO FLED THE WORLD THEIR SOULS TO SAVE Classification Now Critics all things classify And put a stamp on goods and brains, And going o’er a man’s remains Either approve or crucify; And are much vexed in finding some They cannot put their stamp upon. This one they find a mighty thinker, This a mere literary tinker. This seeming saint a fearful sinner. This volume thick ought to be thinner. This one was born before his time, This one too late to start the climb. In fact their ‘forte’ is finding fault Chiefly in men we most exalt. [ 142 ] Technique A KICK Technique teaches Words should flow In ancient channels, cold as snow, Where frozen lines are born along Deprived of all that made them song ; Then laid in Technique’s narrow grave To moulder in oblivion. If these thy lessons, fair Technique, Some other mistress must I seek. [ 143 ] The Three Knights Three glorious Knights came riding by, The very pink of chivalry. ‘Had,* the regretful, slow of pace, ‘Have,* ever questioning ‘Will-Have’s* face. And ‘Will-Have,* of the hopeful eye. All valiant Knights and famed. ‘Had* once possessed the fair domains Where ‘Have* precariously reigns; While ‘Will-Have’ gazes at the sky. Where his possessions mostly lie. Yes — they are aptly named. [ 144 ] Wistful Shade, was Thou just saying We were lovers long ago? Dost Thou think I can remember? It may possibly be so. Didst Thou say ’twas long ago? True — I mind me of eyes gleaming As we see them when we’re dreaming ; Y es, and hair dark as night And hasty footsteps light And whispered greetings low, And fond arms about me clinging While a moon was somewhere shining And a nightingale was singing, In a garden long ago. Ah yes! I now remember, In Florence long ago. [ 146 ] A Birthday Gift Gentle Maid, be not afraid Your secret I’ll disclose, From friends a waggon-load of flowers; From you, a single rose. A single rose as white as snow. Yet in this breast why such a glow? Aged Seventy-Four A happy change Kind friends have wrought And made that extra four seem naught. Let them respect the seven; To take that off should they succeed I’d be reduced to naught indeed Unfit for earth or heaven. Better by far that they should see A frisky youth of seventy Signing himself sincerely [ 146 ] A Precept ‘Eat, drink, and be merry’ Seems a jolly good rule When used with discretion But not like a fool. As a sound moral precept It makes a poor show. Yet most of us use it (But we do not say so). If you’re going to glory Why be sad on the way? If you doubt getting there — Then brace up and get gay. So with modifications I think we should try To use it a little, ‘For tomorrow we die.’ In other words. We either live forever Or through space our soul we scatter. In one case there’s no hurry, In the other case — no matter. [ 147 ] Heredity A curious twist our mind oft takes Which may account for our mistakes, Our sluggishness or too great haste, Our lack of judgment or of taste. Faults of our forefathers innate. Defects of very ancient date. Harking to days before our birth. And now the cause of blame and mirth. [ 148 ] The Prodigal ‘After a youth of dissipation Attend in age to your salvation. What matters a bit of youthful sin? Return, you may be taken in.’ ’Tis well the Prodigal should roam And well that sons should stay at home ; They learn to care for fatted calves And with the Prodigal go halves, While he, just when he should return To eat the food he did not earn. Now in this story we should see Not the gross partiality But, from strict Justice quite apart. The higher Justice of the Heart. [ 149 ] Fame Fame is the fleeting breath of men, Themselves as fleeting as their breath — Motes on the edge of Life’s great wheel Ever revolving down to Death. How hard they strive, each little mote. To leave some word that men may quote. If they succeed ’tis heard a day; Then quoted and quoter pass away. But not so fast — ^for it is plain Eternal Striving doth remain And may be found when all is done. The very essence of the fun. (May, 1920.) [ 150 ] Superstition How Superstition still holds sway Is shown in Stratford every day Where certain doggerel-guarded stones Hold undisturbed the poet’s bones. Indeed we think ’twill be the worse For that sacrilegious wight Who dares face that rustic curse And bring great Shakespeare’s skull to light, And show what once was packed with wit Lying dull and void of it. All long to see — but stop at that. Bold must he be, who bells that cat. (June, 1920.) [ 151 ] In Old Books Thoughts sincere lie buried here covered with dust, And must like dust all disappear; Could they in tenuous threads span the abyss of Time And call up an answering echo in some heart As yet unborn — ’twould be sublime. Some page you’ll find so thumb-marked, dirty, soiled. You’d think the book containing it quite spoiled. Until you come across some verse thereon When suddenly behold! the squalor’s gone. As firefly grovelling on the dingy ground That bright thought shining in the dirt is found. [ 152 ] The Bookworm One is appalled — At volumes stalled in libraries, Where the bookworm works at ease On Lover’s vows, and sighs and tears. Turning all to dust in a few years. One is amazed — At things well phrased, lying unacted In volumes of forgotten plays; And astonished — That people so well admonished By endless sermons, should still sin; Sermons — dusty without and dry within. One must be mad — To think that writings sad Can please — ^yet I don’t know. Remembering Poe. One must be chary — In judging things unliterary, Nor think works too gay or at their ease Cannot become ‘the go’ and please. Meanwhile the moving finger writes, Then disappears. Together with the writing, the writer. And all his hopes and fears. [ 153 ] Books ’Gainst Books, Time tries his tooth in vain, The pen exploits the busy brain. And Books in spite of Time and Chance Like Cadmus’ famous teeth enhance. Or fabled Phoenix rise again TiU fearful in the eyes of men Becomes the peril of the ‘Pen.’ [ 154 ] BOOKS Dreams In dreams we never dream we’re old, The dreams of age again unfold Visions of youth — we’re never old. With dainty Ariel we’ll go When set free by Prospero ‘After summer merrily.’ In a new world, under a sky Seen only by the poet’s eye, For strange things and stranger still Did we but know it wait on will ; Nothing’s impossible to man. Therefore quit speckled Caliban And no longer moaning dwell Under Prospero’s stem spell. [ 156 ] The Beard Many a man has grown a beard Snow white as pure unprinted pages On which the printing-press o£ Time Makes no impression as he ages. The monkish hood makes not the Monk Nor can advancing age make Sages, Snow covers the volcanic peaks While just below the fire still rages. At this Saint Peter nods his head. ‘Among the called the cool are chosen. The make up of a Saint,’ he said, ‘Is but a Sinner nearly frozen.’ [ 157 ] The Eagle The eagle seeks the highest peaks, Would he from thence the world survey? Not in the least — he’s but a beast That hunger-driven seeks his prey. But do we know if this be so? For something more he surely feels As circling high against the sky Slowly the earth beneath him reels. It hath been said that Nature seems Quite blind to her own majesty, That human eyes alone enjoy Her beauty and sublimity. May not the eagle’s keener eye Share with man this ecstasy? [ 158 ] His Vocation A Hermit stood at Heaven’s gate, He entered not but hesitated: ‘This slothful scene of constant praise Is what I never contemplated!’ Fight has been my food and drink, Fighting Devils, and my delight Is hounding them to Hell’s hot brink Where howling they plunge out of sight. Lost in this press of Saints I’d be Sadly missing my vocation. How, or with whom, put up a fight Without a scrap of provocation? Soft has become my flinty bed. Sweet, my austere solitude ; Unregretted pleasures fled. Unshared, my great beatitude. Back to my Devils and their din. One prayer I will sincerely raise — 0 Lord ! forgive my only sin : 1 cannot sing eternal praise. (Rome, May 23, 1920.) [ 159 ] Smithereens As I review life page by page, I’ve found in age — not in my teens — Things have been smashed to smithereens. My thirst for rest and restful ease, It seems I never can appease. The domes I’ve reared with that intent Have all to smithereens been sent. Till now in age I seem to lean On fragments of smashed smithereens. Thank God! one dome remains intact. That of Friendship, which in fact In spite of age yet brightly gleams Mid fragments of smashed smithereens. [ 160 ] Two Fair Philosophies There are two fair Philosophies, The one, too cheerful is and jolly; The other bears with her a skull And is inclined to melancholy; The first frequents the flowery meads And there continuously romps. The second, the sad church-yard needs For she enjoys funereal pomps. In fact she mourns enough for two— Her own, and someone else’s sin. While number one, so full of fun, Wears one long optimistic grin. Could I but find the two combined, The first with optimistic grin off. The second somewhat more inclined To leave her pessimistic air off. The fair result I’d gladly wed And take her to my board and bed. [ 161 ] The Bended Bow We hear the ring of the bended bow, When the arrow sharp hath fled, Only after do we know. How some stricken creature bled. Often rings the careless laughter When some cruel word hath sped. And we only know long after How some tender heart hath bled. [ 162 ] Words Our words indeed may greatly vary With a rich vocabulary, But some essential are as breath, Such Life, and Birth, and Love, and Death. With these four strings on which we play Begins and ends our short-lived lay. [ 163 ] The Absent Cure ‘I leave the harbor far astern, And face the open sea, And yet I can but sadly turn And fondly think of Thee/ Thus did the Lover sob and sigh And think his life was blasted ; Lord knows that life was sweet enough While that flirtation lasted. He calls his Love a distant star. And cold — but much I fear That others find her warm enough, I mean those others near. Now let him go to gay ‘Paree’ And cease on her to think. And if he’s wise economise His paper, pen, and ink. [ 164 ] Intensity I’m lacking in Intensity, Death — to obtain a single kiss May be excruciating bliss And doubtless is in poetry, But were it left for me to say, Rather than Death — Satiety. For when the hissing’s once begun Do we see lovers stop at one? Real lovers have more common sense. And, considering the price. Although one kiss is very nice They leave that one to the ‘Intense.’ [ 165 ] Songs of Indigestion If this life is made up of complications, The next one must be passed in explanations; Perhaps Death cuts for us the Gordian Knot And turns ‘what might be’ into ‘what is not.’ This life is but a kind of troubled bliss, Mixed with a somewhat mitigated pain; Our happiest times are naught but pleasant dreams. And even these we cannot dream again. A pretty scheme indeed — a pretty business Not filled with ought-to-be-ness. But downright is-ness. Nothing obtained without a strenuous fight. Where many may be wrong to make one right. [ 166 ] The Nude Art, to puritanic minds Is, as it were, the entering wedge. Or the first glass, or the first step Leading to the broken pledge. They somewhat doubt this tendency (In a clothed age) towards Nudity. All would be well were we but sure That Art could keep the Nude quite pure; But there’s the rub, for who can say So much depends upon the way? ‘To the pure all things are pure.’ Again the rub, we’re not quite sure. [ 167 ] Two Pictures of Snow We felt it in the air, and lo! ’twas there; And childish faces turn from the ruddy glow And gaze into the speckled darkness of the night At the white multitude hurrying softly down, Covering all below with soft silent snow. And then their rest they take and dream of mom, When they shall wake to the marvel of that sight — A fair new world, clad in spotless white. How sick I get of snow each year. But it costs dear. When I am home again And snow turns to rain and by frost is set, Or begins to melt — how sick I get Of snow, and the constant mackintosh And the lost galosh — forever lost — In slushy, influenza-breeding snow. [ 168 ] Mother Shipton’s still alive And by her guesses seems to thrive, By her guesses right or wrong Mother Shipton gets along. Men guesses right hail with delight, But guesses wrong forget outright; Truth is the guess, the best guess guessed But fails to guess which guess is best. Her prophecy — ‘God and Satan, Man between Was and is and will be seen. And of this truth we may be sure While Man’s alive and worlds endure. And wars will see, and misery. And famine, pest, and poverty.’ Here Mother Shipton ends her song. If she be right she can’t be wrong. Folly Enthroned Once in superb Byzantium There wandered a demented maid, On rude pandian pipes she played — Her only speech — for she was dumb. Such in the east they hold inspired, So when she mounts the Sultan’s throne And wildly plays or makes her moan. Into the omen they inquired. They found no greater prophecy Or better emblem can be shown Of a nation’s quick decay Than Folly seated on a throne. [ 170 ] FOLLY ENTHRONED A Protest I know that good things can be turned from their uses Into fearful abuses, as well as the rest, But between prohibitions and people with missions I hope Moderation will turn out the best. I know that our ancestors fought for their freedom, But I cannot believe that our backbone is such That it bends to the sway of a pack of reformers Who themselves cannot tell ‘just enough’ from ‘too much.’ [ 172 ] Beer and Belly No doubt that good beer was designed for the belly, No doubt that the belly enjoys the good beer, As it does the welsh-rabbit when found hot and handy Add to these the good friend with his smile and his tear. No doubt that some saints while disliking this picture Will promise instead lovely robes white as snow, And places on pinnacles lofty ascending. But I prefer standing by these good things below. ‘Dear me,’ cries the saint, ‘how you cling to your body! But what will you do when from hence you must go?’ Why, I’ll hunt up old friends and grow a new belly. But I doubt if much better than the one left below. [ 173 ] John Beats Thomas One thing in Nature another eats, And by another thing is eaten: In Grammer — it is John who beats And Thomas who is always beaten. In this see that ‘Mysterious way’ About which we must nothing say Or reason, lest we be accused Of what is called — Impiety. But we may say that Crammer’s way Shows a strange partiality Unknown to Nature — who we see Beats John and Thomas equally. So when we learn that fire will bum From fire we try to keep away. Also from that ‘Mysterious way’ Which shows no such partiality. Can such discordant notes unite And form an unheard harmony? Which only gifted ears can hear — Vibrations of the ‘Mystery.’ /^CS5 [ 174 ] Quaint Questions Philosophers of lofty brow Seem very anxious for to know From whence we come and where we go — Before they know what we are now. If they find Men are now but Fools According to great Nature’s rules Most surely fools they must become, At least this can be said of some. Do wild-cats ever change their habits And become as mild as rabbits? Lengthen their ears and drop their claws Following Nature’s unknown laws? Curates are mild, are Bishops so? Yet Bishops out of Curates grow. Doth Nature show us here two rules, One for the Wise and one for Fools? We oft see Fools of lofty brow, We ask not how they come and go, We only know we have them now. Some things we guess at — Fools we know. [ 175 ] The Praying Mantis Does the Mantis really pray? Her hcinds uplifted to the sky, Or is it her little comedy, We know she really means to slay. Believing in this pious show Her lovers fond around her crowd. But she omitting heads and legs. Becomes for them a bright green shroud. Where, in her body fair, they lie Forming a happy family Which self-supporting as you see Seems the reward of piety. So trust not Nature when she’s bland. Not always under gloomy skies. Oft where bright sunshine floods the land The earthquake’s densest danger lies. Note: — The Mantis, it is said, after a short period of dalliance, devours all her lovers, wisely omitting heads and legs as Indigestible, — see Natural History. We know she eats them on3 by one. Is it from hunger or in fun? [ 176 ] Naughty Spirits While waiting on the gloomy shore For old Charon and his skiff, I noticed many spirits swore With a But, or with an If — ‘Damn it, but I didn’t think; Damn it, if I’d only thought; I wish his damned old boat would sink’ Or, ‘If an obolus I’d brought.’ So these light wights in debt get in The heavier for this added sin. While Charon toting them across Muttered sadly — ‘Profit and loss.’ [ 177 ] The flowery bells of breezy Spring Set Lover’s hearts and voices ringing, ’Tis but the lusty voice of May, Singing while she is sowing. That sets these pretty things agoing. Lovesickness mostly soon is cured. At least its pains can be endured. They are the growing pains of Spring And not at all a serious thing. ’Twas ever thus in spring. Among the good there’s someone bad. Among the jolly — someone sad. So in the spring while all things sing One sadly goes a-sorrowing. And so it was with this poor Faun, Sitting grumpy all alone His merry pipes abandoning. He’d sought the forest’s deepest shade To mourn a wayward fickle Maid, Till he no longer silent stayed. But doleful lamentations made. Remembering his philandering. [ 178 ] I said — ‘Why mourn that fickle Maid And lamentations sing? Thou knowest well, as well I know, ’Tis ever thus in spring. Another spring, Another Maid, as sweet as May will bring. ‘In sunny glades with such-like Maids You’ll while away the spring; Until she leaves you like the rest And then again you’ll sing. As you have often sung before, “ ’Twas ever thus in Spring.” ‘Out of the darkness of the night Perchance some owl may mock your plight. And echoing your sighs may sing, “With you — ’twas ever thus in spring,” Till Echo’s voice diminishing Says faintly — “Ever thus in in spring,” Reiterating — “Thus in spring,” And finishing — “In spring.’” Note: — This was the original as written by E. V., not the version printed in “Moods.” [ 179 ] The Dreaming Mountain Great Nature, dreaming, thinks in her deep way. For through her massive portals we catch gleams Of her mysterious thoughts and mighty dreams; Yet seems she strangely blind to her own majesty. Is it for us to see, or hath she seen That Man up through these portals will some day His own creative, emulous imagery display? Pride With body insignificant In mind Man ranges near and far. From blade of grass to distant star In Will all but omnipotent. [ 180 ] THE DREAMING MOUNTAIN Mirth’s Music Man in life’s labyrinth strange music hears Of labor, in the drone of Egypt’s groaning wheels, Of pleasure, in those soft voluptuous reels Danced near the Danube’s ever flowing tide. Sometimes it flutters down from out the sky. Then ’tis the happy Lark’s mad minstrelsy. Or rising nearer earth with silvery notes The unseen Tree-toad’s trilling symphony. But come, fair Goddess Mirth! and bring today Thy music — and with me let it abide ; Murmur of loved voices gone, or far away. Mayhap faint laughter from dark Lethe’s side. Enough the sermons and the sorrows are! Enough the noise of Life and its stem jar ! So come. Thou dimpled Goddess, stay with me. Or if Thou needs must go — then let me go with Thee. [ 182 ] To Holland Holland, thou wast not bom of Doubt, Doubt never checked the wild North Sea, Nor did it drive away that blight. The blight of Spanish bigotry. A dogged Faith in Man himself. And not in mouldering bones of Saints, Is why the blessed Sun now paints With Hope’s bright green thy meadows free. Faith in thy strength. Faith in thy right. Drove back the sea, drove back the blight; And now, o’er fields restored to light. Blows the sane breath of Liberty. [ 183 ] I build my house upon a rock, A rock that rests on sand; The sand rests on another rock And so throughout the land. The land an island in the sea, In both too much uncertainty. So now I build my house on air. Mere Fancy rears a golden dome. Will it hereafter be my home? I look on clouds and see it there. Some wandering wind may find a key And show what I alone can see Ere with the clouds it drifts away. Yet how I long to have it stay. [ 184 ] Good Advice To all ye men advanced in years Who having ears, yet hear, I’ll tell you of a little plan To free your minds from fear. Buy quickly a small Annuity And live ■without anxiety. Thus while you live You still can give But dying naught can leave; So all will wish you long may stay And when you really go away Over your grave will grieve. I [ 185 ] The Optimist asserts that Life Is like a Persian rug unrolled, Where all the rainbow hues he sees Are lovely flowers picked out in gold. The Pessimist in Life beholds A poor rag-carpet Fate unfolds Worn and soiled by the constant tread Of those who sadly earn their bread. Truth finds the vaunted Persian rug Is a mere modem imitation, And the rag-carpet not so bad. Needing a little reparation. (April 21, 1915.) [ 186 ] Venus Venus! get Thee gone! With all thy loves and doves. Why come gliding over the purple sea On thy dainty shell Letting thy warm glances dwell Again on me? I who have been so well With only memory. Would’st light again the fires Of my desires? On the altar where they as ashes lie? Go— saucy hussy, get Thee gone! Over the shining water To thy native sky. [ 187 ] Smaller by Degrees and Beautifully Less With the first blast from out Life’s stormy sky, Youth’s fairy fabric shattered at his feet doth lie, But Youth and Hope together mend the damage done. And soon another lordly palace greets the sun. That too and others just as fast go down Before adversity and the world’s frown. Grown wiser, he builds smaller by degrees Until he’s happy in a hut to take his ease. Resigned to reap the harvest he has sown. Contented with a roof that he can call his own. [ 188 ] Bubbles and Baubles Verse-making is a bad disease, A little printing gives it ease, Success indeed might work a cure But of success no one is sure. Make, if you can, but one good rhyme That will resist the tooth of Time, Or like a bubble lightly ride Sparkling on Time’s restless tide. Baubles and bubbles — crowned, uncrowned. Count as one in lives renowned; Where oft a monarch’s silly jest Of all his deeds remains the best. (N.B. — See Charles the First.) [ 189 ] The Outline Show me the man to vice inclined Who yet resists with steadfast mind, And I’ll show you a Saint designed By Nature, or at least outlined. Perhaps this may be Nature’s way She gives the outline or outlay Which we fill up as best we may. How then on Exhibition-day? When we our masterpiece display. Sign we the work our own creation Or meekly state ‘Collaboration.* [ 190 ] Miracles At Miracles be not dismayed, Of Jonah’s whale be not afraid, The miracles of flower and fly Are greater — and that they should die Made and remade, unceasingly. Strange it may seem, but we find out That Miracle is bom of Doubt. For given Mind and Mystery At once the birth of Doubt we see. Or if playfully inclined Imagine Mystery minus Mind — Or turn it the other way about. And fancy Miracle less Doubt. [ 191 ] The Advent of Man At first the Elements beheld with glee That upright cub we now call Man, But when they saw within his grasp the glint Of a rude axe, fashioned of splintered flint. Throughout their ranks a mighty shudder ran. And now they see him strike the bird in flight. Drag out the scaly monsters of the sea. Warm himself and brood by self-made fire And light his gloomy cave’s obscurity; From whence bom on the air Strange sounds they hear Of throbbing, diabolic revelry; Thus seeing Man rise from the sod, they fear The advent of a Devil or a God is near. [ 192 ] The Pessimistic Maze Fancy its circlings—canyons great Where light can scarcely penetrate, Its lofty walls o’erwrit with lies Or Nature’s mysterious verities. The center vast, dense silence fills Or at the best vague whisperings; No certainty has yet been found But Death to end the weary round. What scheme imagine? What devise To find your way amid these lies? You wander by a dubious light While all about reigns hopeless night. How came you there, you do not know ; Nor whence, nor where, nor why, you go. [ 194 ] The Slot Death’s like the penny in the slot, Something we get — we know not what, Nor do we care so much to know That into that slot we care to go. Now you may think this fun misplaced. Yet surely funny it would be Finding a game we held as chance Was betting against certainty. What if the bitter tear we mop Or spend life in frivolity? Great Nature comes not to a stop Nor stops her old fecundity. She says — ‘Increase and multiply. What if I give the weeping eye? I give the cure, the remedy, In careless gay hilarity.’ One of her lies. Can this be told To those who barely taste of life. Or early perish in the strife Before Life’s glory they behold? For you this moral is enough: Cast not Life’s penny in the slot In hopes of getting God knows what — Yet don’t put up too big a bluff. [ 195 ] The Boomerang Many on the woolsack sit As Judges who are most unfit. ‘Judge not lest you be judged/ a rule Among the best that we have found, A boomerang that circling round Finds out the spot where weVe unsound, Or, quoting Johnson, we should say: ‘Unsound fundamentally.' [ 196 ] Culture Culture may make the cabbage grow Till fit for horticultural show, But it remains a cabbage still. That is culture’s bitter pill, That cabbage still. But no. But no. Science now cries : Take with the cabbage proper pains. You yet may make a head with brains. Of course no brain will live to see it. But we’ll try it. [ 197 ] Too True Mid all the longings of the heart The Future forms the brightest part. How will it be with us at last With all our Future in the Past? Ah! Youth, this is not so with you; In Age alas ! ’tis but too true. [ 198 ] Hell We’ve changed the name, the thing’s the same, In hopes it may take off the curse; We suffer now a Mental flame — Not Physical — which is the worst? [ 199 ] The How and Why Things ask no questions in this wondrous world, Silently the golden sunsets are unfurled And tinged the drops in Hope’s prismatic bow, And so, Man only of all things below, (Unlike the honest plants and flowers) Passes his hours, scanning earth and sky. Eternally asking the How and Why? ( 1919 .) (A quotation from Maurice Hewlett.) “There are at least two persons in each of us, one at least of which can course the starry spaces, and inhabit where the other could scarcely breathe for ten minutes.” (Montaigne — see Florio’s translation and spelling — not mine!) “If as some say, to philosophate is to doubt, with much more reason to rare and to fantastiquise, as I do must necessaraly be to doubt; for to inquire and to debate belongeth to a scholler, and to resolve apper- taineth to a cathedrall master.” [ 200 ] Philosophers We picture them as wise old men Far past youth and its temptations, A wand in hand, a little sand Whereon to trace their demonstrations. Seated on well-carved marble benches Too cool for thin-clad classic wenches. There under academic trees They pour forth wisdom at their ease In various forms of eloquence But always to an audience. This wisdom’s only for the wise. One sage another verifies. That is approves, quotes, or denies. Of course we read them once or twice But do not follow their advice Nor really profit by their lore. We simply sit and read some more. Are we then given to understand That wisdom must be second-hand? When Science teaches us each day That Truth lies just the other way? [ 201 ] Don’t Call Me Mister, Call Me George Sweet mistress mine, ’tis May, let’s go a-maying. Thy glorious hair like Eve unbind As through the garden we go straying. And bring with Thee a merry breeze To set the trees and rushes singing. But as we rove in silent grove And I with pleading sigh begin a-wooing. Mention not age, nor call me thy dear sage. For that of all my fun would be the undoing. [ 202 ] Illusions Ah! the wild music and the dizzy whirl, And the timed footsteps on the level floor, And two hearts beating, and glances meeting. And tresses entangling ever more; Could such things last forever? Alas! they passed forever Like those light footsteps On that dusty floor. If such things but illusions be, Haste and make an end of me. For they’re more precious in my eyes Than ‘skinny Saints in paradise.’ So sang a singer long ago, But we have changed all that, you know. Now, we shall have just what we please According to modern theories. [ 203 ] A Chinese Picture Rising from a sapphire sea An emerald island I espy, Where dreaming in a turquoise sky Pearly clouds stretch lazily, While beneath a golden tree, A little deer for company. An old Sage sits in revery. No changes mar this peaceful scene Unvarying from year to year. Its emerald grass is always green And on it lies the dappled deer. The pearly clouds dream o’er the sea While deep in thought beneath the tree The Sage remains in revery. Where lies the charm? In changeless sky? Or breathes it from the sapphire sea? Or is it the little dappled deer That keeps the old man company? Whate’er it is, its tranquil peace Pervades my heart and troubles cease. [ 204 ] A CHINESE PICTURE Compensations No need to cheer up the rosy-gilled Optimist Who swears he is happy as happy can be, But rather encourage the grumpy old Pessimist And lavish on him all your spare sympathy. But we must confess twixt ourselves and the lamp- post That Rosy-gill’s not so infernally gay, And that grumpy old P., while wrapped up in his sorrow. Gets a great deal of comfort in his pensive way. Whence we conclude that there are compensations Which make of the Sad and the Gay but a pair, And that in the course of the earth’s revolutions Things, after all, pan out pretty fair. (June, 1920) Humbug How often have I tried to lug Into my verse the word Humbug, And also hoped the thing to kill But as in verse, I lack the skill. Unlike Hydra, one vital head In Humbug lives among the dead. And sprouts and breeds, we always find. In various forms after its kind. Saint George the dragon is ever killing. And in some pictures the beast seems willing To meekly come and take its gruel. This on the artists’ part looks cruel. But Humbug’s real — give it real pain And make it squirm again and again. [ 207 ] Camera Lucida and Camera Obscura Did angels singing as Creation dawned, Know of the thousand monsters that were spawned? Do two great laws preside in Nature’s scheme: One for the things that are— one for the things that seem? When angels sing, how is composed the song? Is it composed of two parts. Right and Wrong? Can laws of harmony unite these two? Do discords count as nothing, are they few? You may not say these questions are but seeming, They form the very tissue of Life’s dreaming. Primitive monsters of the labouring mind, They wander in huge freedom unconfined Through the hushed watches of the lonesome night. With gloomy questionings our sad soul affright. Come, gentle Dawn — bring the fresh breath of Day, Open the window — let in the cheerful light, And drive these fearful monsters all away. [ 208 ] Autumn Old Men say — That happy days they still find in the autumn, When squirrels rustle among the leaves, That golden grain they still find in the furrows Left long ago from the over-full sheaves. So they say. Old Men say — How sweet ’twas to linger when young Under the peaceful harvest moon, That now the winters are longer and colder. And that they come oftener and much too soon, So they say. Yet Old Men say — That some of the sweetest though saddest colors Are found in the west, at close of day. But night coming on, and friends all departing. They go themselves with the twilight away, Alas! so they say. Note: — This was the original as written by E. V., not the Tersion printed in “Moods.” [ 209 ] A Cure for Insomnia (THE ARTIST’S) Insomnia — child of incessant thought, Nursed in darkness by thy mother Care, Sad sister of the dread Nightmare, And her infernal gang led by Remorse Followed by pale Despair — How oft Thou sittest by my sleepless couch Pointing to that oriental drug. That lethal thug who promises With Aladdin-dreams to free the mind From strife — ^yet tangles With ever tightening coils the Soul To a dull semblance of Death in Life — I’ll draw Thee— And seeing what Thou art clearly portrayed Henceforth regard thy horrors undismayed. [ 210 ] The Classic This is a subject Doubt would prove, What Classic helps afflicted Job When with such grandeur he deplores His many maladies and sores? Yet once his indignation past To his integrity holds fast. And Homer of the bay-crowned brow, Of course he is a Classic now. But Doubt would know how class him when Crownless and blind he sang to men, As bowing his venerable head From door to door he begged his bread? Call it but Classic, ’tis enough To purify the vilest stuff. So the worst filth of Greece and Rome In our best schools is quite at home. [ 211 ] Fourth of July 1914 The sun rose on our glorious Fourth, Bringing a cool wind from the north Crisping the tepid southern sea With a fresh sense of Liberty. Alas! ’twas burdened with the knell Of a young monarch’s funeral. Now thousands must in mourning go To prison, exile, or to death. In compensation for the blow That robbed one mortal of his breath. [ 212 ] Fame What is this Fame? ’tis but a name Bandied about the world a bit, It must be sweet when men deem meet To risk their lives obtaining it. But as for me, I’ll let it be To come or go as it sees fit. Contented with my little share If it with me will bide a bit. And yet — I want a little more, I hardly know what it should be. Perhaps a smile, perhaps a sigh. Or something to catch the passing eye Writ on my tomb, that this will say ‘On earth he lived — ^he did not merely stay.* (Revised September, 1914.) [ 213 ] Rhyme and Reason I find those verses are the worst Where all the rhymes are thought out first, And limping Reason hobbles in To save it from poetic sin. Some even say that what is meant Is but the fruit of accident, And they are right, for half the time We often see the tyrant Rhyme Puts poets in this paltry plight. That, starting out to say one thing. The very opposite they sing. [ 214 ] An Excuse These lines treat not of bread and butter. No fool is sent home on a shutter, No ‘Pippa passes.’ Readers are never made to feel They are but asses; And painful mental vivisection May be avoided by selection. Yet they’re defective, that I own. For which defects I make atone By having ready this retort — I’ve made them very, very short. Those Days With all the Dancers duly set, We danced some pleading minuet Which figured well the goings on Of those days and our merry set. That once so merry set. But now with pretty ghosts alone I dance that pleading minuet. Could I But Know! Careless youth scattered, as if it little mattered How, or where, or when the golden grain was sown; Had it but known ! Closing the weary eyes gives the brain no reposing, It sadly goes on reaping what it has sown. Had it but known ! Old Age again sowing but this well knowing. It never will gather the harvest it now sows. Can only murmur to itself, meekly and low, ‘Could I but know!’ [ 216 ] THOSE DAYS An Old Man’s Song Time — for a moment hold thy glass So that Life’s sands no longer pass, ’Twill be great sport to look them o’er And then make up the motley score, A mass inchoate as this verse. And like it, might have been much worse. The common sand of Sweet Content I somehow miss. And the rare pearls of Perfect Bliss; The golden grain of Wealth is somewhat rare But dull green grains of Discontent and Care Are there. And of sparkling diamond grains of pleasure A good measure. But ruby gems of Love and coral beads of Passion I must count in. Mixed with jet black specks of Sin. Yet, to be fair, some pure white grains Of Truth and Honesty abide, and purple Pride; Nor must I leave out of the calculation Some small, much broken particles of Reformation. Dark are the grains that mark the death of friends. But why trouble borrow? we go ourselves tomorrow. Then comes a lot of dull disgusting stuff Which taken in the mass must stand for Pain, Repentance, carking Care, and Melancholy, And taken in the rough, are far from jolly. [ 218 ] But is it best to calculate the rest? The remaining grains that have as yet to run? For there is one that soon or late stops all the rest, Stops even breath — and that is — Death. CHORUS OF OLD MEN Set up the glass, Old Time, And while we may we’ll sing. We now are old and past our prime And all have had our fling ; We all have had our fling, old friend. We all have had our fun. So set up the glass again, old Time, And let the mixed sands run. And let the last sands run. [ 219 ] A Questioning Sage A questioning Sage was seen scratching his head ; The answer *tis plain was not there, When after a silence he suddenly said, T always think better when lying in bed, I never could think in a chair.’ So he hies him to bed and has a good nap. But on waking as clear as a bell The answer (which does not amount to a rap. So I think) he refuses to tell. [ 220 ] The Seven Sages The Seven Sages all agreed They very little knew, That wise men were not many, The very wise but few. And that the very wisest said, T know no more than you/ This being so, a modern Sage May stand among the rest. Who says that what he does not know Is what he knows the best. Now this is not mock modesty For that would never do. And what he thinks about himself He also thinks of you. [ 221 ] Aunt Eveline How dear to my heart Are the dreams of my childhood, But one cherished dearly Is of — Aunt Eveline, Who from the ripe currant Was want to make yearly (By a miracle surely) What she pleased to call wine. This wine she oft proffered With cakes of her baking, For which it is whispered She had taken ‘the bun’ And the cakes were not wasted But by me never tasted Was what one painful lesson Had taught me to shun ! [ 222 ] Father William What makes Father William So eternally clever Has never been settled, And I doubt if it ever Will be by will-power No matter how willing, Yet the secret he offers To sell for a shilling. My palm cross with silver. The gipsy premises, And then you can safely Stand by for surprises. And prophecies also Which although not true And you laugh at so slyly Yet believe in them too. Between knaves and fools This rule’s good enough. The smaller the price The poorer the stuff. The greater the price The bigger the bluff. [ 223 ] A New Year’s Greeting [A.D. 1909] Old Sol is out today, or rather say Apollo — and I would gaily sing, For never have I felt, even in spring. More springlike than I do today. Sign of approaching age? So let it be — With me life’s sun is stooping low And what remains of youth is but the glow. Old friends seem dearer and years no drearer; Of new friends I can count a score — and by and by, Under another sky, I may find more. This song I sing for all on New Year’s morn, Hoping this New Year’s sun a glorious course may run. Ending as he began with sunny locks unshorn. [ 224 ] We loved, it may be madly, In far-off Zanadu, And then we parted sadly And bade a last adieu. Had we then solved the mystery — Read to the end Love’s history, In far-off Zanadu? It seems a perfect irony Fond love should be but vanity And passion end in satiety, Leaving but ruined pleasure domes In far-off Zanadu, Even in Zanadu! [ 225 ] Herford’s Fly I merely kill a tiresome fly, Thine activity I transfer To another sphere — ^mayhap nearby, For here Thou art too near my nose. So thine account I close, hoping For repose and sweet tranquility. And no more talk of Thee and Me. Vain hope ! for when I see Thee dead, A miracle of life wiped out, Enters creeping Doubt, and questions old Of chance and destiny and — may not The next earthquake do the like to Thee? But here at once I’m told this is Impiety, and wonder at the temerity Of Herford, who dares ask the reason ‘Why and wherefore of the Household Fly?’ [ 226 ] Microbes No longer can we eat, or drink, or sleep, or think. Or even breathe or sneeze, quite at our ease. But what we find we’re on the brink of some disease. Open the papers and at once our eyes Are greeted by some new surprise. For there we see them advertise galore Cures for diseases we never knew before. Arising from smells and dust and dirt From millions of Microbes in one continuous flirt. Who thus enhance to such a huge degree the dangers We cannot avert, find out, or touch, or see. That in despair we resign ourselves to Destiny. Note: — This was the original as written by E. V., not the version printed in “Moods.” [ 227 ] A Timely Saint *Twas summer at midnight when all through the house I went prowling for something to make a carouse. The drinkables all had been locked up with care For fear that some tramp might be wanting his share. When what to my wondering sight should appear But a waiter in white with a bottle of beer, Which he deftly uncorked with a motion so quick That I knew in a moment ’twas a summer St. Nick. With no stocking to fill and no Christmas near I yet felt it my duty to fill up with beer, Which I did without fail, but as people are slow To believe in this tale — I’ve the bottles to show. [ 228 ] Let the serious have their say, As we’ve lived we’ll pass away, So bring the song and bring the wine — Fitting things for life’s decline; Bring the wine and bring the bowl. Think not you will lose your soul. For many men as wise as they Have lived and died in this same way. A life unsuited to the present day? Let them cheer up — we soon will pass away. [ 229 ] A wandering breath of fragrant May, A soft caressing breath of spring, Awakens in my heart today The child that long since there did sing. And in its welcome springlike glow I feel it melts the lingering snow. Enchantment Enchanted between Heaven and Hell In cold flames the Maid must dwell Until a Hero breaks the spell. [ 230 ] ENCHANTMENT Three Old Men sat thinking All on a summer day, The first said naught, The second less. The third, he went away. The first one was a Saint, The second was a Sage, The third was but the common Fool We meet in every age. T fear them all,’ the Author said, ‘Their looks are very cool, I fear the Saint, I fear the Sage, But most of all the Fool.’ [ 232 ] Y et he to them did show his book, ‘It treats of Doubt,’ he said. The Saint at once began to frown, The Sage, he shook his head. ‘Yes, ’tis of Doubt, as I have said, So fitting ’tis that I Should sometimes be in doubt myself.’ ‘We thought so,’ all did cry. The Saint resumed his settled frown. The Sage his lofty look. The Fool first laughed and then he yawned And then his way betook. The Writer tried to argue. Then also went away. And so it was while two Fools left. Two other Fools did stay. [ 233 ] Vanity A King who long had reigned Reviewing deeds too often stained By treachery and blood, By lust of power and lust of gold And by ambitions manifold All wandering from good, Said: ‘Now alas! too late I see My life has been but Vanity. For all my gain has been my loss. My hoarded gold has turned to dross. Ambition to satiety. And my long search for happiness Ends but in pain and deep distress. Suspicion and anxiety. Until with Solomon I cry This world is naught but Vanity.* [ 234 ] “Highfalutin” Cease fife and drum and trumpets’ rousing blast And cannons’ loud prolonged reverberations, Things needless now as in the buried past Since we have made our final reformations, Renouncing War and all its infernal machinations! Some Saints declare, in fact they swear. This war-craze must be curbed — ‘Far better go to war ourselves Than have the Peace disturbed.’ [ 235 ] As to the whiffle-tree its whiffle So to the pen its play or piffle. Things of the morning Repented of ere night, Thought better of next day, Here see the light. Sweet are thy uses, O Variety! Within the limits of propriety. Thou art the spice of life, Or say the lively fife. To the humdrum of life’s monotony. Had things been but sweet and good And all mankind been meek and mild I fear me much we never should Have had a Whistler or a Wilde. [ 236 ] By a stroke of pen the Czar did away With drinking in Russia, and that in one day, But think you this dryness is destined to stay While Adam is made of such bibulous clay? What a pity sayings new Quoted only by a few. Made common in the course of time. At last are quoted as a crime. The brightest sayings, such our pace. Become in one year commonplace. When Painters take the Pen in hand And Poets wield the Brush, Many come forth the sight to see. But few die in the crush ! Logic affords us this surprise; 'Tis full of loop-holes of escape. And the surveyings of the wise Are measured by elastic tape. So using wisdom Baconian Avoid all rigid forms Draconian. Doctors are but busybodies Interfering with our toddies. Examining our eyes and ears. Keeping tab upon our years. Overhauling our hydraulics And ending all our fun and frolics. [ 237 ] If in the making of my rhymes I use the sam.e words many times And their recurrence bothers Thee, Think how they must have bothered me ! Ideas plenty, rhymes but few. Try verse yourself — ’twill bother you! While walking in this vale of woe One finds full many a tender toe ; But luckily all now aspire To roll through life on rubber tire ; But tiresome and indeed a sin. To tread on toes — then rub it in ! So autos guide as best you can. Avoiding toes of beast and man. There is a point of hard detection Which stops just short of sheer perfection. Beyond which if we try to go ’Tis painting lilies — bleaching snow; Running perfection in the ground; So stop when you this point have found. The business man— He fights for honesty in trade As far as laws of trade permit, Yet finds to Conscience in the end A heavy debt he must remit. [ 238 ] Mid verses dear to memory The brood of Mother Goose we see So full of sound, some say of sense, Retain their proud pre-eminence. So here we give, stitched somewhat loosely, Leaves retaining all that’s goosely. Let Dante take his Beatrice cold And freeze with her in highest Heaven, She’s scarcely human. I’ll take my Beatrice here on earth And warm — more in the form Of a real woman. Said Canova to Pauline ‘You’re not too fat nor yet too lean, Y ou’re not too young nor yet too old,’ And here she added ‘not too cold.’ Often prompted by our wit We proffer caps we think will fit. Failing to note what others see; Such caps would fit us to a T. [ 239 ] I have now reached that time of life When all friends seem to see That any kind of shaky health Is good enough for me, While if they’re ill a single day There’s the very Deuce to pay. Oft in the street some man I meet To whom I nod a pleasant greeting, Then find that I’d made up my mind To cut him dead on our first meeting. Hear Bacon beautifully tell How the most ancient music fell Into the flutes of Greece and Rome, There making for itself a home Where it remains — for not a tone Has reached the modern Gramophone. This rhyming you may call it play. And so it is looked at that way. Yet also it may hold some Truth. Let Chronus with his iron tooth Put all to proof. [ 240 ] GLEAMS ' / Foreword to Gleams Gleams are not Criticisms, but more like the rays or lines seen in a spectroscope. X-rays we might call them, discovered in the effulgence which surrounds celebrated characters and seen from the standpoint of an ordinary person; a person possessed, so he thinks, of that questionable gift — a sense of humor. Had this ordinary Person been gifted also with an ounce of Discretion, Silence— as far as he is concerned — would have reigned supreme and no one have been the wiser. Question: — are they now? No, these are not criticisms, for I feel that — The Cobbler may without disgrace Point out defects in the statue’s sandal, Whereas the praise of form or face Would in his case be called a scandal. [ 243 ] The Archaeologists Future research mid our remains Will show what care we take and pains To guard the output of our brains. To check and lawless thieves appall We blazon ‘Copyright’ on all — On Venuses and telephones, All copyrighted but our bones. Note: "Our bonee are turned to no such aureate earth As buried once, men want dug up again.” [ 244 ] Why Compare? Let great poets stand single and apart : One to the mind, one to the heart His wisdom or his music doth impart, Nor merge the noble Milton with the throng. Nor Dante stern, the scourge of every wrong. How compare Shakespeare with the rest When he seems best, until we read the rest? No — let them stand apart, nor make compare Between the perfect, wonderful, or rare. Contrarywise — Who so noble are or rare But what with others we may make compare? This a comfort is to some, to some despair. Yet, to be just, however high or low Or dark or fair, or generous or mean. Some little touch is seen whereby is shown We each have something we may call our own. [ 246 ] D. G. Rossetti Rossetti simply seals our doom, Nor can we ever hope to join Of British Bards that noble throng Or even emulate their song. A band of Plagiarists we stand In an extensive barren land, From a poetic point of view Seeing our Poets are so few. In truth, Rossetti sees but one. Yet hopes that in the course of time We may give birth to things sublime Huge — rugged — raw — and ‘Underdone.* Note: Last words in Rossetti’s ‘‘Lives of Famous Poets”: ‘‘The real American poet, Walt Whitman — a man enormously greater than Longfellow or any other of his poetic competitors.” 'This makes us feel like quoting the Bab Ballads: “Time, time, my Christian friend.” [ 247 ] There’s something wrong, dear Whitman, with thy song: Words are not wanting, nor is sound Oft signifying nothing. But a bound To thy vast love, surpassing that of saints Embracing all mankind, cannot be found. When Thou didst first appear, a shameful fear Ran through the land lest we should fail To understand thy occult meaning Of thy impropriety, which at once Gave Thee fame allied to notoriety. In Thee we seem to hear that story told Of those who grasping all but little hold. In Thee we seem to see that fearful slip Between the longed for cup and thirsty lip; But when we’re borne along ‘on pinions strong’ Unmindful of thy faults — we hail thy song. Whitman reaped his “Leaves of Grass” And while the sun shone made his hay. We know not how ’twill look when sere. We only know it served his day; But say, why did he tear away. In ruthless rage it would appear. That leaf to modesty most dear? [ 248 ] Emerson ‘I am the Doubter and the Doubt.’ Thus Emerson — turn this about, T am the Kicker and the Kick.’ Add bear’s cubs into shape we lick. Blake says ‘Damn strengthens.’ That’s the kick, And that ‘Bless weakens.’ That’s the lick. So kick in kindness those you lick. And lick in meekness boots that kick. Something is wrong in my quotations Or in my ratiocinations, My trend of thought seems off the track. It scarcely pays to put it back. [ 249 ] Aristotle Once all-persuading Aristotle The tree of knowledge sought to bottle, Or put each branch into a socket, And if it would not fit — would dock it. For thought, reduced to handy lumps. The head provides convenient bumps. In this the origin we see Of world renowned Phrenology, Which in its day made such a show. And may again, for aught we know. [ 250 ] When snugly seated by the fire With Thee and friends and flowing bowl Who cares how loud the wild winds howl, Let others chide, With Thee I’ll bide And risk a Tam O’Shanter’s ride. With Thee I breathe the new-mown hay And with Thee through the gloaming wander. In shady lanes where lovers stray. Where eyes replace the light of day. And kisses sweet forever linger. And arms bid stay, cost what it may. With Thee I’ll bide And risk a ride. Another Tam O’Shanter’s ride. (April 2, 1916. Capri.) [ 251 ] When Plutarch before Pluto stood That monarch in a peevish mood Said: ‘Was it essential we should meet To make thy set of Lives complete? Or did’st Thou think to intertwine, In thy old style, thy name with mine?' Said Plutarch: ‘Prithee ask no more, I had a pair of “Lives” in store When I gave out for want of breath But neither hinted at my death ; And as for twining, would I dare To make of our two lives a pair?’ ‘Well, someone’s done it and I’m vexed.’ Here Pluto, turning, called out: ‘Next.’ (Mar 2. 1916.) [ 268 ] IN PLUTO S REALM ’Tis told of Ericson the great That from his earliest years till late, He used a little set of tools Dating from his infancy; They defective and but few, Yet ample, for with them he drew His great designs and measured lines With absolute dexterity. Let his example be your rule — Idea first and then the tool. But show not like the fatuous fool Nothing but — Dexterity. [ 254 ] Lovely as are “The Stones of Venice” In Ruskin’s hands they are a menace, It seems to him that he alone Can know the value of a stone ; Yet I begin to think I know it As by him through Venice led I’ve had them all thrown at my head. [ 255 ] Hudibras Alas ! Alas ! how all things pass, Even Butler’s ‘Hudibras’ Where jokes that once the rafters shook Would now hang dead, in mid-air stuck; Yet they were good in their own day But now have an odor of decay, A taste for which we can’t acquire. But read, like Samuel Pepys Esquire, In order we may a verdict pass On Samuel Butler’s ‘Hudibras.’ [ 256 ] Lacon and Festus It’s long years since I looked at Lacon, Not classing it, or him, with Bacon; Yet Festus might repay perusal. Remembering how he did bamboozle Or with his tale of Hell afright us, For now we enter without asbestos The once famed Hell of once famed Festus. But why like Plutarch make a pair Of Festus and Lacon? Or compare Bacon with the great Shakespeare, Is more than I can make quite clear; I only know when this is done Someone may call it flippant fun, And think I should straightway repent. And so I will — to some extent — Under that good old plea ‘well meant.’ [ 257 ] Coleridge, we all know, thanks to thee. How Kubla built in Zanadu — Or did a pleasure dome decree Whose priceless treasures we would see, Had we the key. But he who sees that dome arise And drinks the milk of Paradise, And hears that Abyssinian Maid And her wild strains so sweetly blending Must dread that noble river’s ending And be afraid. But not afraid of thy Marineer, Another tale we fain would hear Told by that bright-eyed Marineer : Or wander with pale Christobel Adown a moonlit haunted dell. Thrilled by that creeping pleasing fear We love so well. [ 258 ] Yes, therein lies thy matchless spell, Thou see’st more than tongue can tell In thy wizard’s crucible; But soon in its magic fumes we fear All thy marvelous visions end And disappear. In letters gloriously at ease, A spendthrift of thy great estate. In judging Thee, why hesitate To call Thee great? [ 259 ] How one bubble breeds another Like as twins are to each other, ‘Linked sweetness long drawn out’ I merely quote, I do not flout; For I was thinking of soap-bubbles. And our little joys and troubles, Each shining with its little sun. All bursting and the game is done. And how it all resembles Life Where bubble-blowing is the strife, Their bright gleaming our reward While their bursting our sad record. This peroration leads to Poe, From whom we differ, for we know This life is not an endless woe On a dark Plutonian shore. When bubbles burst, we blow some more ! Thus stopping that gloating Raven’s quoting Himself monotonously o’er On memories’ ever-echoing shore. Poor Poe ! How sad thou should’st not know it, Europe, at least, did hail thee Poet. Strange ! How thy fire was quenched and lost on That Plymouth-rocky soil of Boston — That impenetrable ‘Side’ of Boston. [ 260 ] The Bacon Theory Of all the things that vex the mind, Of all the things that are not clear, I think I need but mention one — Who was Shakespeare? The greater we make out the man, The greater grows the mystery: Why should he wish to live and die In absolute obscurity? But make that man a King incog. Hidden worse than in a fog. The atmosphere begins to clear About Shakespeare. [ 261 ] Pepys Pepys’ unconscious fun is fine, No need to read between his lines How that most lovable old sinner ‘Mighty merry at some dinner,’ Tracing that dinner to its end In haste must for the doctor send. Who to relieve his passing ill Administers the timely pill. How touching his simplicity For when his pretty wife awakes She finds him weeping silently. Of course they make it up straightway. Then — ‘Mighty merry all next day’ — And she — a new gown doth display. [ 262 ] Dante Stern master of vindictive verse, Skilled weaver of a dreadful curse, Thy powerful spell endureth long. For in thy unforgiving song Thine enemies yet dwell — in Hell. Meanwhile thy name in Time’s despite Revolves in spheres of heavenly light. Dost joy to cast thy glance below Where, merged in thy Hell’s murky glow. Still wanders thine unforgiven foe ? Hateful thy creed, hateful thine age. Surely thy guide, thy Mantuan sage. Bore kindlier thoughts to Fields Elysian Than thou to thy dogmatic Heaven? Once only dost thou touch our hearts. ’Tis when Francesca’s trembling lip Its piteous tale of love imparts. [ 263 ] Spencer’s Supine Comedy In Spencer’s paradise when all is done Clouds cast no gloomy shadow, there’s no sun; For warmth’s not needed where no one feels cold, Nor can age be where nobody grows old. Where wrong is banished, there remains no right, So courage counts for nothing, there’s no fight. There is no pity, where no one’s bereft. So charity and poverty have left. Even resignation, no display. For every atom is content to stay Where it is put, nor feels the least desire To tempt again motion’s creative fire. But rests in balanced immobility As such things should in ‘Supine Comedy.’ [ 264 ] Diogenes What wast thou, O Diogenes? Till Macedonia’s great Son Gave thee thy chance, the only one To so impertinently ask: ‘Wilt step aside and let me bask?’ Perhaps the surly Sage was right; He loved not intercepted light. So lying o’ershadowed in his cask What better favor could be ask Than ‘Step aside and let me bask.’ For wonderful and up to date Was this Diogenes the Great; Plenty of sunlight and fresh air Were seemingly his only care. Surely no Englishman can snub A man who takes his daily tub? [ 265 ] CUicd\! j)«^ l a.f e I j^jvtti/r^ o-Lan.e_ I/n- o g^lc^LcL ^^t^ r^\^^oLi;es__^"’^jOTVKt ewr )\ec^v€r ^^cO: ^2^^ Clll'’'' '■■ ■ 1* •, ,. -■ 1 * n/ '*$il^';A '■/j* ' alJti' -. 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