OTLEY 
 MEASURES 
 
 BERT LE3TON TAYLOR 
 
Class il'i_ai33 
 Book _^liLfi_J_Lb 
 Copyright N" L::ii:2._ 
 
 COFYRICliT DEPOSIT. 
 
MOTLEY MEASURES 
 
Portrait by Eve Watson Schiitze 
 
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 Copyright 1913 
 
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 THE LAURENTIAN PUBLISHERS 
 
 Faithont Ivdt 
 
 CbicaAo 
 
 APR 29 1914 
 
 ©CI.A3716J0 
 
To 
 
 J K 
 
NOTE 
 
 ' I ^HE bulk of the verses in this collection 
 -*■ first appeared in The Chicago Tribune, under 
 "A Line-o'-Type or Two." For this reason a 
 number of jingles are included that otherwise would 
 be omitted, as being too local in interest. 
 
J'IME'S the Master Critic, 
 
 Only he can say 
 What, amofig these verses, 
 Good and had and worse is — 
 What will live for aye. 
 
 This which I consider 
 
 Good, as verses go. 
 Time might care no whit for, 
 Not a little bit for. 
 
 How is one to know? 
 
 This which I might pass up 
 
 As of little worth. 
 Time might choose and cherish 
 Till the nations perish 
 
 From the face of Earth. 
 
 Since in every case, then, 
 
 I should he in doubt. 
 Why should I assay them? 
 Why attempt to weigh them? — 
 
 Time will sort Vw out. 
 
i 
 
'^ Motley '5 the only wearP 
 
INVOCATION 
 
 r^ COMIC Spirit, hovering overhead, 
 
 With sage's brows and finely-tempered 
 smile, 
 From whose bowed lips a silvery laugh is sped 
 At pedantry, stupidity, and guile, — 
 
 So visioned by that sage on whom you bent 
 Always a look of perfect sympathy. 
 Whose laugh, like yours, was never idly 
 
 spent, — 
 Look, Spirit, sometimes fellowly on me! 
 
 Instruct and guide me in the gentle art 
 Of thoughtful laughter — once satyric noise; 
 Vouchsafe to me, I humbly ask, some part. 
 However little, of your perfect poise. 
 
 Keep me from bitterness, contempt, and 
 
 scorn. 
 From anger, pride, impatience, and disdain. 
 When I am self-deceived your smile shall 
 
 warn, 
 Your volleyed laughter set me right again. 
 
 Am I inspired to mirth or mockery. 
 Grant, Spirit, that it be not overdrawn; 
 And am I moved to malice, let it be 
 Only "the sunny malice of a faun." 
 
 13 
 
CANOPUS 
 
 \\/^HEN quacks with pills political would 
 dope us, 
 
 When politics absorbs the livelong day, 
 I like to think about the star Canopus, 
 
 So far, so far away. 
 
 Greatest of visioned suns, they say who list 
 'em; 
 To weigh it science always must despair. 
 Its shell would hold our whole dinged solar 
 system. 
 Nor ever know 'twas there. 
 
 When temporary chairmen utter speeches. 
 And frenzied henchmen howl their battle 
 hymns. 
 My thoughts float out across the cosmic 
 reaches 
 To where Canopus swims. 
 
 When men are calling names and making 
 faces, 
 
 And all the world's ajangle and ajar, 
 I meditate on interstellar spaces 
 
 And smoke a mild seegar. 
 
 14 
 
For after one has had about a week of 
 The arguments of friends as well as foes, 
 
 A star that has no parallax to speak of 
 Conduces to repose. 
 
 15 
 
SPRING IN THE SHOPS 
 
 In the manner of Ezra Pound 
 
 "\\/'ILL people accept them? (i. e. these 
 
 bargains) 
 O dainty colorings and range of prices! 
 Gowns of charmeuse in all the colors of the 
 
 season; 
 Blouse suits of Russian cloth, tucked belt of 
 
 softest satin, 
 And only ?37.50. 
 
 Beautiful but inexpensive hats (values 
 
 unprecedented). 
 Lovely French flowers combined 
 With handsome ribbon or numidi, roses, 
 
 lilacs, wistaria, in beautiful colorings. 
 
 And petticoats, in crepe de chine and chiffon. 
 
 The petticoat oddly cut and gored, 
 
 That holds its fullness just below the knee, 
 
 And yet puffs out above. 
 
 Giving the new and fashionable outline. 
 
 Soft petticoats of sheerest voile, opened on 
 
 side with clasps, in straight effect, 
 Silk jersey tucked and plaited ruffle, with 
 
 underlay of same, 
 Special at 31.95. 
 
 16 
 
THE CUSSED DAMOZEL 
 
 'T'HE Cussed Damozel cut loose 
 
 About half-past eleven, 
 Prepared to do as wild a deed 
 
 As any under heaven. 
 Oil-soaked rags were in her hands, 
 
 And the bombs in her grip were seven. 
 
 She cried, "We'll blow this mansion up 
 Where Lloyd and George do dwell!" 
 "Wow!" cried her fellow-suffs, whose name* 
 Were sweet as caramel — 
 
 Millicent, Pansy, Rosalys, 
 Phyllis and Christabel. 
 
 17 
 
THE GADDER 
 
 A MONG the folks who write me, 
 
 From Frisco to Cape Ann, 
 Is one from whom I often hear, 
 And whom, I hope, I sometimes cheer 
 The pleasant Traveling A4an. 
 
 His lot Is far from being 
 
 An Iridescent dream; 
 And yet, I nearly always find, 
 He holds a happy state of mind, 
 
 With cheerfulness his theme. 
 
 Despite the dreary cooking 
 
 With which he must contend, 
 Despite the beds as hard as bricks, 
 And absence from his wife and chicks, 
 Sometimes for weeks on end — 
 
 Though night Is void of music. 
 
 And care infests the day — 
 He greets existence with a smile, 
 And scatters cheer with every mile 
 That marks his treadmill way. 
 
And if he sometimes writes mc 
 
 A note to give me pain, 
 I guess the reason for his knock: 
 He had to rise at three o'clock 
 
 To catch some dismal train. 
 
 He roves the country over, 
 
 Beersheba unto Dan. 
 May Heaven's blessing light on him, 
 And keep him sound in wind and limb 
 
 The pleasant Traveling Man 1 
 
 19 
 
HENCE THESE TEARS 
 
 npO charitable deeds I'm not addicted, 
 
 For sentiment I do not care a prune, 
 And yet I weep at poverty depicted 
 
 In any illustration or cartoon. 
 My heart, though flinty, beats a little faster; 
 
 I choke, I sob, I simply have to bawl 
 When I behold that bit of broken plaster — 
 
 That patch of broken plaster on the wall. 
 
 I am not touched when halted by privation, 
 
 By frowzy tramps and hollow-chested hags, 
 Nor moved by the familiar illustration 
 
 Of starvelings in exaggerated rags. 
 The 'tiny tot' with toes and elbows showing, 
 
 The widow in the super-tattered shawl 
 Affect me not, but one thing gets me going — 
 
 The patch of broken plaster on the wall. 
 
 Denuded laths, forlornly emblematic 
 
 Of penury, and hopelessness, and gloom! 
 I see the pallid poet in his attic, 
 
 The seamstress in her six-by-seven room. 
 And like the wall my heart is always broken, 
 
 I weep like Mr Southey's waterfall; 
 For always I observe that tell-tale token — 
 
 The patch of broken plaster on the wall. 
 
 20 
 
Oh sign of bitter pill and persecution! 
 
 Oh symbol of the wolf beyond the door! 
 Oh hallmark of the direst destitution! 
 
 I howl — I've howled a thousand times 
 before. 
 Ah, would I were a Vanderbilt or Astor! — 
 
 I'd carry joy to every humble hall, 
 I'd take to each a nickel's worth of plaster — 
 
 And patch that broken plaster on the wall. 
 
 21 
 
A BALLADE OF STAR DUST 
 
 'T^HE heavens are open as a scroll 
 Before the ardent eye of man, 
 And from celestial pole to pole 
 One pattern serves the cosmic plan. 
 We do not know — nor ever can — 
 Its whence or when, its end or aim, 
 But this we see, when skies we scan: 
 The stuff of Cosmos is the same. 
 
 Star dust and stars — an endless shoal — 
 
 And light-lanes labyrinthian. 
 
 The part is image of the whole, 
 
 One pattern serves the cosmic plan. 
 
 For all resolves as all began — 
 
 Dead worlds and quick, and suns aflame; 
 
 From Acrux to Aldebaran 
 
 The stuif of Cosmos Is the same. 
 
 Somewhere among the worlds that roll 
 In Night's great glittering caravan, 
 There sings perchance a kindred soul: 
 One pattern serves the cosmic plan. 
 He pipes upon the reeds of Pan 
 A tune like this, with some such name. 
 ''Ave!" I fling across the span — 
 "The stuff of Cosmos is the same!" 
 
 77 
 
Hail, fellow of a far-flung clan! 
 One pattern serves the cosmic plan. 
 Star dust our end, from dust we came; 
 The stuff of Cosmos is the same. 
 
 23 
 
THE RIME OF THE BETSY JANE 
 
 A moitusciipt found in a bolllc 
 
 TT was the good ship Betsy Jane, 
 
 That sailed in a spanking breeze, 
 With a bunch of miHtant Suffs on board, 
 Condemned to an island unexplored 
 In far off southern seas. 
 
 The Suffs they went on a hunger strike, 
 
 And nothing eat would they, 
 So the skipper, a conscientious man. 
 Was forced to the forcible feeding plan, 
 
 In the genteel British way. 
 
 A squall came up and the ship went down, 
 
 And we of the Betsy Jane 
 Were left on a raft in a dreadful plight, 
 With never a friendly sail in sight, 
 
 On the well-known raging main. 
 
 Our skipper, a conscientious man. 
 
 Divided the grub with care. 
 Says he: "It's share and share alike. 
 You dames can eat or stay on strike, 
 
 But damme! there's your share." 
 
 24 
 
The waves ran high, the grub ran low, 
 
 And never a sail we saw. 
 The Suflfs they scorned the pork and bread, 
 And "Votes for wimmen !" was all they said, 
 
 And never a chaw they'd chaw. 
 
 The starving crew of the Betsy Jane 
 They watched their end draw near, 
 
 Till, "Blast my eyesl" said Bosun Bill, 
 ■'If they won't eat their chuck / will!" 
 And the rest of us give a cheer. 
 
 But the skipper, a conscientious man, 
 
 A pistol huge drew he. 
 "Who touches a hunk of yonder bread 
 Dies like a dog! Back up!" he said. 
 
 And — 
 
 Right here the tale in the bottle stopped, 
 
 And left me on tiptoe; 
 For how they straightened the matter out, 
 Or whether their fate is still in doubt, 
 
 I'd jolly well like to know. 
 
 25 
 
THOSE FLAPJACKS OF BROWN'S 
 
 r^H light as the foam on the Plover, 
 
 That mottles that magical stream; 
 Oh light as the vows of a lover 
 
 And the sighs of a summer night's dream; 
 Aye, light as the gossamer stuff of 
 
 Salome's impalpable gowns, 
 Are the flapjacks I can't get enough of — 
 
 Those flapjacks of Brown's. 
 
 A cure for the cares that beset us, 
 
 Each cake is a separate joy; 
 Gold-brown as the sweets of Hymettus, 
 
 But lacking their classical cloy; 
 Brown-gold as the burr-oak in Autumn, 
 
 This masterpiece cookery crowns. 
 They are served with the trout (when you've 
 caught 'em) — 
 
 Those flapjacks of Brown's. 
 
 They come piping hot from the griddle, 
 
 And you tuck away tier upon tier, 
 An ecstasy seizes your middle, 
 
 A sense of ineffable cheer. 
 Each stack that you tenderly butter 
 
 The maple juice lovingly drowns, 
 And you eat, till no word you can utter, 
 
 Those flapjacks of Brown's. 
 
 26 
 
O cakes of alluring complexion! 
 
 O dainties as light as the dew! 
 O flapjacks that fond recollection 
 
 Will always present to my view! 
 Their like you will never discover, 
 
 All vainly you quest them in towns. 
 They are born on the banks of the Plover 
 
 Those flapjacks of Brown's. 
 
 27 
 
BATTLE SONG 
 
 "/Fif stand at Arjnageddon and we battle for the Lord^' 
 —THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 "\\7'E Stand at Armageddon, and we battle 
 
 for the Lord, 
 And all we ask to stead us Is a blessing on 
 
 each sword; 
 And tribes and factions mingle in one great 
 
 fighting clan 
 Who issue forth to battle behind a fighting 
 
 man. 
 
 We stand at Armageddon, where men have 
 
 stood before, 
 And whatso be the cost of it our voice is still 
 
 for war. 
 Now let the traitor truckle, the falterer go 
 
 fawn, 
 We only ask to follow where the battle line 
 
 is drawn. 
 
 We stand at Armageddon, where fighting 
 
 men have stood, 
 And creeds and races mingle in one great 
 
 brotherhood; 
 And here from dawn to darkness we battle 
 
 for the Lord; — 
 Thy blessing, great Jehovah, on each 
 
 impatient sword! 
 June 20, 1912. 28 
 
CHILDREN 
 
 COMETIMES our welcome has no tongue; 
 
 Children are often In the way. 
 We tolerate them while they're young, 
 And do not always share their play. 
 
 We play our games and they play theirs, 
 And when a dozen years have flown 
 
 They have, we find, their own afltairs 
 And all their interests are their own. 
 
 They are, we reason, in our debt, 
 
 And wistfully we look for pay: 
 They give us what we ask — and yet 
 
 We feel we're rather In the way. 
 
 Our love, now fond, would manifest 
 
 Itself in every act and word; 
 But we are wont to veil it, lest 
 
 We feel a little bit absurd. 
 
 More fond we grow, and duteous; 
 
 We only live for them, we say. 
 They too would live — but not for us; — 
 
 So runs this pleasant world away. 
 
 29 
 
ON THE EVE 
 
 'M'OW fare they forth to battle, 
 
 And none for peace shall sue; 
 And ye who sneer and cavil — 
 
 They fight your battle, too. 
 Scoff if you will, but stand aside, 
 
 For there is work to do. 
 
 All ye who mock and flout them 
 
 May go your idle ways: 
 They care for no man's censure. 
 
 They ask for no man's praise. 
 Against Oppression's sullen ranks 
 
 A stainless flag they raise. 
 
 And every wife and mother, 
 And child that hugs her knee, 
 
 And every son and father 
 That is or is to be, 
 
 Shall one day rise and praise the men 
 Who struck for you and me. 
 
 30 
 
Then go they forth to battle, 
 And high the hope they hold; 
 
 And in the time to follow 
 Their story will be told: 
 
 For men have fought, and kept the faith, 
 Since "the brave days of old." 
 
 November 4, 1912. 
 
 31 
 
BALLADE OF A MOSS-GROWN 
 SYMBOL 
 
 T MUCH esteem the rubber-stamp cartoons, 
 Symbols of paleozoic pedigree — 
 
 Age-battered emblems that for moons and 
 moons 
 
 Have roused my righteous wrath or gurgling 
 glee: 
 
 Stern Justice with her Scales and Snicker- 
 snee, 
 
 The Horn of Plenty stuffed with plums and 
 pears 
 
 And hothouse grapes, in wild luxuriancy. 
 
 The dear old Paper Cap that Labor wears. 
 
 Dear to my heart as dim remembered runes 
 Of childhood twittered from a nurse's knee, 
 Are Uncle Sam's starred Hat and Panta- 
 loons, 
 The Ship of State, the Snake of Anarchy, 
 The smoking stacks of good old Industry, 
 The tyrant Trust that nought and no one 
 
 spares — 
 All these I cherish, one especially — 
 The dear old Paper Cap that Labor wears. 
 
 32 
 
Fresh as the dew upon a peck of prunes, 
 Green as Joe Miller's jocund jeux d'esprit — 
 So fresh, so green those mossy old lampoons 
 That never fall to make a hit with me: 
 The Dinner Pail, the Presidential Bee, 
 Oblivion's Chasm, to which the dead one 
 
 fares, 
 And — rooted like an oak in memory — 
 The dear old Paper Cap that Labor wears. 
 
 Immortal lid, I lift my own to thee! 
 Tenacious lid, that Time nor dents nor tears! 
 Symbol encrusted with antiquity! — 
 The dear old Paper Cap that Labor wears. 
 
 33 
 
TO THE PROOF ROOM 
 
 'Q MEN of dark and dismal fate," 
 A prey to typographic terrors, 
 
 you who labor long and late, 
 Correcting other people's errors — 
 
 Think not I do not realize 
 
 How much I owe your Argus-eyes. 
 
 More times than one you've fixed for me 
 Some flaw in my imperfect "copy," 
 
 Or pointed out indulgently 
 
 A line or two distinctly sloppy, 
 
 Or marked (how oft I'd hate to say) 
 
 An accent in the word *cafe.' 
 
 Although at times I may appear 
 A trifle querulous and hateful, 
 
 1 hope in this to make it clear 
 
 I am, and always have been, grateful. 
 I only ask, O Argus-eyes, 
 Don't decorate that last 'revise' I 
 
 How many are the breaks you mend! 
 
 How frequently are you of service! 
 And few who read this comprehend 
 
 How tense your work, how close and 
 nervous. 
 I understand and sympathize — 
 Yet beg, keep off that last 'revise'! 
 
 34 
 
Because, to your judicious sight, 
 A sentence may be in confusion. 
 
 Don't feel that you must make it right 
 Oh leap not to that vain conclusion! 
 
 Therein resides, as like as not, 
 
 A joke — a feeble joke, God wot — 
 
 But still a joke, whose life depends 
 Perchance upon a single letter; 
 
 And though the line your eye offends. 
 Seek not, I beg, to make it better. 
 
 When I have left the ofHce roof 
 
 Oh spare, oh spare that final proof! 
 
 In closing I would voice to you 
 My high esteem of your vocation, 
 
 And incidentally renew 
 My everlasting obligation 
 
 For marking (every other day) 
 
 That accent in the word 'cafe.' 
 
 35 
 
THE ICONOCLASTS 
 
 jT^AIR Phryne they say was not shameless; 
 
 The fact has been recently aired 
 That her classic existence was blameless, 
 
 As white as the bosom she bared. 
 We'd got the Idea in our noddle 
 
 Her conduct was far from correct, 
 But they tell us that she was a 'model' 
 
 In every respect. 
 
 Now Sappho is cleared of the fable 
 
 That wedded romance to her name; 
 She lived (so they tell us by cable) 
 
 A modest and virtuous dame. 
 Her conduct was rigidly proper 
 
 In spite of her amorous rime, 
 And gents who attempted to *cop' her 
 
 But wasted their time. 
 
 What next! Will they tell us that Thais 
 
 Was prudent and proper and prim? 
 That a gentleman's chances with Lais 
 
 (In a manner of speaking) were slim.'' 
 Was Salome a saint pettlcoated, * 
 
 The victim of scandalous runes? 
 Were the lips of Aspasia devoted 
 
 To prisms and prunes? 
 
 36 
 
Away with your critical history! — 
 
 Its findings we look at askance. 
 Shall these dames be denuded of mystery, 
 
 These heroines robbed of romance? 
 Shall any old science professor 
 
 With cherished traditions get gay? 
 No! A health to Dame Gossip, who - 
 bless her! — 
 
 Preserved them for aye. 
 
 37 
 
POST-IMPRESSIONISM 
 
 Lines written after viewing Mr Arthur Dove^s 
 exposition of the ^'Simulianeousness of the Ambient 
 
 I 
 
 CANNOT tell you how I love 
 The canvases of Mr Dove, 
 Which Saturday I went to see 
 In Mr Thurber's gallery. 
 
 At first you fancy they are built 
 As patterns for a crazy-quilt, 
 But soon you see that they express 
 An ambient simultaneousness. 
 
 This thing which you would almost bet 
 Portrays a Spanish omelette. 
 Depicts instead, with wondrous skill, 
 A horse and cart upon a hill. 
 
 Now, Mr Dove has too much art 
 To show the horse or show the cart; 
 Instead he paints the creak and strain, 
 Get it.f* No pike is half so plain. 
 
 This thing which would appear to show 
 
 A fancy vest scenario. 
 
 Is really quite another thing — 
 
 A flock of pigeons on the wing. 
 
 38 
 
But Mr Dove Is much too keen 
 To let a single bird be seen; 
 To show the pigeons would not do, 
 And so he simply paints the coo. 
 
 It's all as simple as can be; 
 
 He paints the things you cannot see. 
 
 Just as composers please the ear 
 
 With 'programme' things you cannot hear. 
 
 Dove Is the cleverest of chaps; 
 And, gazing at his rhythmic maps, 
 I wondered (and I'm wondering yet) 
 Whether he did them on a bet. 
 
 3') 
 
BYGONES 
 
 Lines inspired by a view of the Cubist Paintings, 
 follozved by a late supper 
 
 r^R ever a lick of Art was done, 
 
 Or ever a one to care, 
 I was a Purple Polygon 
 
 And you were a Sky-Blue Square. 
 
 You yearned for me across a void, 
 For I lay in a different plane. 
 
 I'd set my heart on a Red Rhom.^ozW, 
 And your sighing was in vain. 
 
 You pined for me, as well I knew, 
 
 And you faded day by day. 
 Until the Square that was heavenly Blue 
 
 Had paled to an ashen gray. 
 
 A myriad years or less or more 
 
 Have softly fluttered by; 
 Matters are much as they were before, 
 
 Except 'tis I that sigh. 
 
 I yearn for you, but I have no chance; 
 
 You lie in a different plane. 
 I break my heart for a single glance. 
 
 And I break said heart in vain. 
 
 40 
 
And ever I grow more pale and wan, 
 And taste your old despair, 
 
 When I was a Purple Polygon 
 
 And you were a Sky-Blue Square. 
 
 41 
 
THE HEIGHT OF THE ARTISTIC 
 
 In the manner of Dr Holmes 
 
 T DID a canvas In the Post — 
 
 Impressionistic style. 
 It looked like Scrambled Eggs on Toast; 
 I, even, had to smile. 
 
 I said, "I'll work this Cubist bluff 
 With all my might and main, 
 
 For folks are falling for the stuff, 
 No matter how inane." 
 
 I called the canvas Cow With Cud, 
 
 And hung it on the line. 
 Although to me 'twas vague as mud, 
 
 'Twas clear to Gertrude Stein. 
 
 I have forgotten her remark; 
 
 'Twas something, though, like this: 
 'The sinking rising lightens dark 
 To be while being bliss." 
 
 I hung this canvas, as I say, 
 
 And everything went well, 
 Until upon a fateful day 
 
 An accident befell. 
 
 42 
 
There came Into the picture hall 
 
 A melancholy man; 
 He saw my picture on the wall 
 
 And straight to laugh began. 
 
 This laugh, which echoed through the room. 
 
 Expanded to a roar; 
 I never heard a person boom 
 
 In such a way before. 
 
 His collar burst, his buttons popped, 
 
 His coat and weskit split; 
 Then down upon the floor he flopped, 
 
 And floundered in a fit. 
 
 Ten days and nights, while hope was faint, 
 I watched that wretched man; 
 
 And since, I never dare to paint 
 As funny as I can. 
 
 43 
 
ART INSURGENT 
 
 ^^They desire to ex-press the sensation an object 
 •presents to them, never the imitation of if^ 
 
 jlJOW blest am I who've lived to see 
 
 Art from her ancient bonds set free, 
 Like ladye fair in castle shackled 
 Until some knight the dragon tackled. 
 
 The painter used to learn to draw- 
 That he might paint the things he saw, 
 But now the canvas he reveals 
 Is meant to show us how he feels. 
 
 And if the curious things on view 
 Afford the layman any clew, 
 They raise the interesting question, 
 'Can what he feels be indigestion?" 
 
 Now, I'm not obstinately blind, 
 I view things with an open mind; 
 I do not say that Futurism 
 May merely be astigmatism. 
 
 I do not urge the Futurist 
 
 To hasten to an oculist; 
 
 If this or that I can't divine, 
 
 It's eight to five the fault is mine. 
 
 44 
 
The point of view — No, that won't do; 
 There simply is no point of view. 
 Since with sensation we are dealing, 
 We'll have to say, "the point oi feeling^ 
 
 Tell me, where's the new art bred, 
 "Or in the heart or in the head?" 
 Is it engender'd in the eyes, 
 Or from the liver doth it rise. 
 
 You ask what ails these men. Who knows.'* 
 Their pea-green pangs and purple throes 
 Might be set right with calomel. 
 As Bunthorne wails, "I cannot tell!" 
 
 45 
 
WOOD MEMORIES 
 
 To T. B. 
 
 VOU too have come the forest way 
 
 That wound among the ancient trees 
 And crossed the open places gay 
 With asters bending to the breeze; 
 
 And Hght the burden that you bore 
 Along the frank and smiling road 
 
 That led you to the lonely shore 
 W^here Rapture's very self abode. 
 
 You too have known the many moods 
 Of streams that babbled as they ran 
 
 Of far, unravlshed solitudes 
 
 Beneath the primal spell of Pan; 
 
 Have halted, reverent, on a hill 
 
 And felt what speech can not express — 
 The ^'Incommunicable thrill" 
 
 Of unexpected loveliness. 
 
 You too, when owls were on the wing. 
 Have wakened In the windless wood 
 
 And hearkened to the murmuring 
 Of waters under leafy hood; 
 
 46 
 
Have heard a wakeful sparrow call, 
 And seen the bees of heaven swarm, 
 
 And watched the waning firelight fall 
 Upon a sleeping comrade's form. 
 
 47 
 
THE WHITE-THROAT 
 
 t-IIGH on a still unbudded bough, 
 You sing your measured song; 
 The wilderness Is with me now, 
 A thousand memories throng. 
 
 The breathless grove, the windy hill 
 
 With popples all astir. 
 The wayside rose, the tinkling rill. 
 
 The flash of wing and fur. 
 
 The river, done with wandering, 
 
 The silver, silent shore — 
 These come before me while you sing. 
 
 These things, and many more. 
 
 Your music In the haunts of men 
 
 Is sweet as April's sun. 
 But oh it is as sweet again 
 
 Where unnamed waters run. 
 
 For in the brush the birds are few 
 That have the gift of song. 
 
 And so my heart goes out to you 
 The woodland way along. 
 
 48 
 
SILVER BIRCHES 
 To M. C. 
 
 'TpHE fire god with his flaming brand 
 
 Has passed this way and worked his will. 
 And still the silver birches stand, 
 A ghostly huddle on the hill. 
 
 But wraiths of birches, tempest-blown, 
 
 Yet all their glory is not fled. 
 I love them for the "beauty flown," 
 
 And will not think that they are dead. 
 
 The flame has scorched, the gale has bent. 
 The elements have had their will. 
 
 Yet all their beauty is not spent. 
 The silver lingers on the hill. 
 
 When of our youth we are bereft 
 We love, I heard a woman say, 
 
 The chastened beauty that is left 
 
 When time has worn the bloom away. 
 
 49 
 
THE ROAD TO ANYWHERE 
 
 ACROSS the places deep and dim, 
 
 And places brown and bare, 
 It reaches to the planet's rim — 
 The Road to Anywhere. 
 
 Now east is east, and west is west, 
 
 But north lies in between. 
 And he is blest whose feet have prest 
 
 The road that's cool and green. 
 
 The road of roads for them that dare 
 
 The lightest whim obey. 
 To follow where the moose or bear 
 
 Has brushed his headlong way. 
 
 The secrets that these tangles house 
 
 Are step by step revealed. 
 While to the sun the grass and boughs 
 
 A store of odors yield. 
 
 More sweet these odors in the sun 
 Than swim in chemists' jars; 
 
 And when the fragrant day is done, 
 Night — and a shoal of stars. 
 
 SO 
 
Oh east is east, and west is west, 
 But north lies full and fair; 
 
 And blest is he who follows free 
 The Road to Anywhere. 
 
 51 
 
A KITCHEN GARDEN OF VERSES 
 
 RAIN 
 
 npHE rain is raining all around, 
 It's raining here and there; 
 It washes up my lettuce seeds, 
 And doesn't seem to care. 
 
 REWARD 
 
 Every night my prayers I say, 
 And search the garden every day; 
 And every day, if luck is good, 
 I get a radish for my food. 
 
 THE GARDENER 
 
 The gardener is a useful man, 
 Who fits into my garden plan. 
 He comes each day to work for me, 
 Except when he is on a spree. 
 
 He plants the peas and things in rows, 
 And plays upon them with a hose. 
 He gives the garden every care. 
 Except when he is on a tear. 
 
 The gardener works till day is done, 
 And never seems to mind the sun. 
 He keeps my garden full of crops. 
 Except when he is full of hops. 
 
 52 
 
THE COW 
 
 The friendly cow all red and white, 
 
 I love with love intense; 
 She wakes me with her bell at night, 
 
 And blunders through my fence. 
 
 She wanders like a vagrant breeze, 
 
 Most amiable of brutes; 
 She tramples down my beans and peas, 
 
 And crops the tender shoots. 
 
 HAPPY THOUGHT 
 
 This world is so full of a number of bugs, 
 Fm sure every plant should be sprinkled 
 with drugs. 
 
 53 
 
SONG — MR C-RN-G-E 
 
 ^ PRINCELIER son of Plutus never 
 Did in this world exist; 
 To nobody second, 
 I'm easily reckoned 
 The boss philanthropist. 
 It is my most inane endeavor 
 To rid myself of pelf 
 So every cent'll 
 Quite incidental- 
 Ly advertise myself. 
 
 My object all sublime 
 I shall achieve in time — 
 To show that opulence is a crime, 
 That opulence is a crime; 
 And make each million spent 
 Eternally represent 
 A never-ending advertisement — 
 An endless advertisement. 
 
 I lie av/ake nights inventing plans 
 
 To give my wealth away. 
 I've libraries scattered 
 And spattered and splattered 
 
 All over the U. S. A. 
 
 54 
 
And every hour or so I start 
 A Tund' for this or that; 
 
 But somehow or other, 
 
 In one way or t'other, 
 They fall extremely flat. 
 
 I fling my gold Hke sightless Plutus, 
 The mythological mint, 
 
 And prattle with unction 
 
 At every function 
 To get my name in print. 
 It Is my daily and dear endeavor, 
 My constant end and aim, 
 
 To scatter my ducats 
 
 In barrels and buckets. 
 And advertise my name. 
 
 My object all sublime, etc. 
 
 [Goes out, throwing money around. 
 
 55 
 
BALLADE OF OBLIVION 
 
 \VHO'S to be President? 
 
 Editors can't agree; 
 So many prominent 
 Statesmen at liberty. 
 Who is the next V. P. ? 
 Where is his oriflamme? 
 Pardon if I tee-hee: 
 Nobody cares a dam. 
 
 Nobody gives a cent 
 Under the canopy; 
 Devil an argument, 
 Devil a rivalry. 
 Any old nominee, 
 Any old shine or sham. 
 Second place .^ Fiddle-de-dee! 
 Nobody cares a dam. 
 
 Nobody cares a spent 
 Nickel that I can see. 
 You are indifferent, 
 / must confess ongwee. 
 Yawneth the bourgeoisie, 
 Yawnetb your Uncle Sam. 
 Tail of the ticket? Gee! 
 Nobody cares a dam. 
 
 56 
 
Who the V. P. may be — 
 Japheth or Shem or Ham — 
 Prince, between you and me, 
 Nobody cares a dam. 
 
 57 
 
TO JULIA— STYLES OF 1913 
 
 JULIA, I am far from prudish 
 
 (Though In virtue trebly armed), 
 But when I behold you nudlsh 
 I am also far from charmed. 
 You may fancy you bereave me 
 
 Of my senses: truth be told, 
 Your avowed revealments leave me 
 Absolutely cold. 
 
 Were your various lines Hogarthlan, 
 
 That were "something else again": 
 Ere I fled, no arrow Parthian 
 
 Should be pointed with my pen. 
 You may flaunt your lines before me, 
 
 Far from ravished is mine eye. 
 Au contraire, they merely bore me; 
 
 I've no cause to fly. 
 
 Julia, just a word between us — 
 
 Further I'd not have it go: 
 You are not a sea-born Venus, 
 
 As the merest glance will show. 
 If this friendly counsel passes 
 
 I should also like to add, 
 Love's not blind — why give him glasses 
 
 Till his eyes are bad? 
 
 58 
 
Lady, though your clothes are lawful 
 
 They are in the worst of taste. 
 Julia, you are something awful. 
 
 And your judgment is misplaced. 
 History, that dates from Eden, 
 
 Puts us next to nature's plan: 
 Only beauty that is hidden 
 
 Tantalizes Man. 
 
 59 
 
AFTER THE MOVING 
 
 pOETS can't work in a clutter! 
 [Business of trying to think.] 
 Here the confusion is utter I 
 What has become of the ink? 
 
 [Business of trying to think, 
 Pegasus trying to caper.] 
 
 What has become of the ink? 
 Where in the world is the paper? 
 
 Pegasus trying to caper! — 
 This is a great little place. 
 
 Where in the world is the paper? 
 Packed in some barrel or case. 
 
 This is a great little place 
 For a poetic suggestion! 
 "Packed in some barrel or case," 
 This the reply to my question. 
 
 For a poetic suggestion 
 
 I must take refuge in flight. 
 
 This the reply to my question: 
 "Go to the office and write." 
 
 60 
 
I must take refuge In flight; 
 
 Here there Is utter confusion. 
 'Go to the office and write/' — 
 That Is the only conclusion. 
 
 Here there is utter confusion, 
 So I beg leave to withdraw; 
 
 That Is the only conclusion. 
 Order Is heaven's first law. 
 
 So I beg leave to withdraw; 
 
 Here the confusion Is utter. 
 Order Is heaven's first law: 
 
 Poets can't work In a clutter. 
 
 61 
 
THE GREAT OBSESSION 
 
 T ADY with the rampant broom, 
 
 Fixed though your resolve may be, 
 Hearken ere you clean this room 
 To a word or two from me. 
 
 Know you not that microbes lurk 
 Here and there and everywhere, 
 
 And that all this 'cleaning' work 
 Simply populates the air? 
 
 Now these microbes lie asleep, 
 Harmless, in a thousand nooks; 
 
 Dormant where the dust is deep. 
 Back of pictures, back of books. 
 
 Lady, clean, if clean you must. 
 
 But I say beware of these 
 Demons lurking in the dust, 
 
 'Pathogenic entities.' 
 
 Oh the many, many lives 
 
 Ignorantly cast away 
 By our dust-disturbing wives 
 
 Since the first spring-cleaning day! 
 
 62 
 
Lady with the cleaning bee, 
 
 You are much too young to die. 
 
 Take a timely tip from me: 
 Let the sleeping microbe lie! 
 
 63 
 
COMMERCE AND ART 
 
 AN ordinary playhouse, unendowed, 
 
 The seats all filled and all the boxes 
 
 taken; 
 A blaze of lights, a happy, careless crowd. 
 Material, Irreverent, laughter-shaken; 
 A comedy by Shakespeare or by Shaw, 
 Something poetical or controversial, 
 A first-rate play, performed without a flaw : 
 All right, of course. But oh it's so 
 
 commercial! 
 
 A temple dim, about a quarter filled, 
 
 A cloistral place to Culture dedicated, 
 
 A knot of worshippers, uplifted, thrilled. 
 
 By thoughts unutterable agitated; 
 
 A play by Strindberg or Euripides — 
 
 A joyous skit to solace and refresh us — 
 
 Something to edify if not to please: 
 
 It's not well done. But oh It is so precious! 
 
 64 
 
THE LAY OF THE LAST GOLFER . 
 
 (^OME Winter, come, and free me from 
 the thrall 
 Of Golf! Bestrew the lureful links with 
 snow: 
 For they that are condemned to chase the 
 ball 
 Are hopeless as the Person with the Hoe. 
 
 Midsummer form is gone, nor all my play 
 Can win it back to cancel half a stroke; 
 
 The driver's off, the brassie's had its day, 
 The mashie's blown, my putting is a joke. 
 
 And yet I chase the ball around the lot 
 (He needs must whom the golfing devil 
 drives), 
 Hoping I may — but knowing well I'll 
 not — 
 Pull off a brilliant string of fours and fives. 
 
 Sound, Winter, then, "the trumpets of the 
 sky," _ 
 
 Lock up the links and throw away the key; 
 Else, like a self-doomed Sisyphus, must I 
 
 Pursue this foolish game from tee to tee. 
 
 65 
 
BON VOYAGE! 
 
 npO-DAY our well-known Ship of State 
 
 Is yielded to a new commander, 
 Whose fame, 'tis pleasant to relate, 
 Has not been dimmed by breath of 
 slander: 
 
 A mariner trueblue! 
 We like the captain, but mislike his crew. 
 
 A motley crew. Some, like their chief, 
 
 Are brave to face the wildest weather; 
 Others will cry to run or reef. 
 
 And show to storm the craven's feather. 
 The officers are leal: 
 The keen-eyed, lean-faced skipper holds the 
 wheel. 
 
 The course is plain — straight out to sea, 
 With all sail set and bands a-blowing; 
 
 Scylla (see cartoons) on the lee, 
 
 Charybdis on the weather showing. 
 
 "Sail on, O Ship of State!" 
 
 No one is^'hanging breathless" on your fate. 
 
 66 
 
You've ridden out unnumbered blows, 
 And weathered all cartoon disasters, 
 With every kind of crew, God knows, 
 And guided by the least of masters. 
 You always come to port, 
 'Spite navigation of the wildest sort. 
 
 "Sail on, O Union strong and great!" 
 Whatever happens we'll not worry. 
 Sail on, sail on, O Ship of State! 
 You'll keep afloat in any flurry. 
 So no concern we feel: 
 Our thought is of the man who holds the 
 wheel. 
 
 Skipper, your health! and luck to you! 
 
 May all prosperity betide you! 
 Just fix one eye upon that crew. 
 
 And keep the nine-tailed cat beside you. 
 And should the rascals strike. 
 Give them the yard-arm or the marlinspike. 
 
 March 4, 1913. 
 
 67 
 
BALLADE OF ONE VIRTUE 
 
 T LEAVE, or shall, "a name to other times" 
 (At some small sacrifice of modesty) 
 "Link'd with one virtue and a thousand 
 crimes," 
 Like that of Byron's Terror of the Sea. 
 Yet, buried in abysmal infamy, 
 By almost every sin poetic stained. 
 Still may I lift my head, of one fault free: 
 Never have I the Sonnet form profaned. 
 
 In common with a host of scribbling mimes, 
 
 Poetic license I've spelt anarchy; 
 
 I've smashed all rules (here goes one!) forty 
 
 times, 
 And have, with pert and flippant parody, 
 Murdered the classics in a ^fiendish glee.' 
 Few are the misdemeanors I've disdained; 
 And yet — this stiffens up my vertebrae — 
 Never have I the Sonnet form profaned. 
 
 That form, which genius heaven-born sub- 
 limes 
 And less than genius beggars, reverently 
 I have exempted from my foolish rimes; 
 For that at least I may not penance dree. 
 
 68 
 
Oh my offense is rank!" as you agree: 
 But grant me this one virtue — I've 
 
 refrained 
 From writing Sonnets. Heaven my witness 
 
 be, 
 Never have I the Sonnet form, profaned. 
 
 Apollo, lord, when in thy chancery 
 My many crimes are cried, and I arraigned 
 With other doggerel bards, be this my plea: 
 Never have I the Sonnet form profaned. 
 
 69 
 
THE SEASON OPENS 
 
 npHE tariff battle now is on, 
 
 Wide-mouthed Revision sounds 
 tantivy! 
 The tax will be removed anon 
 
 From dragon's-blood and divi-divi. 
 And east and west you hear men say, 
 Going to the baseball game to-dayV^ 
 
 Our frank and fearless President 
 Is smashing this and that tradition. 
 
 And stuffing with astonishment 
 The oldest living politician. 
 
 And east and west you hear men cry. 
 
 Wait jor a good one! That's the eyeT^ 
 
 Embattled dames in London Town, 
 Forgetting they are perfect ladies. 
 
 Are blowing up and burning down, 
 And raising every sort of Hades. 
 
 And east and west you hear the shout, 
 
 The pitcher'' s rotten! Take him out!^' 
 
 The peace of Europe is at stake, 
 The cannons roar, the sabres rattle; 
 
 A dozen kingdoms are a-quake. 
 
 And listening for the call to battle. 
 
 And east and west men yell, '^Keep cool! 
 
 Sit down there! Let the umpire rule!''^ 
 
 April 10, 1913. 70 
 
TO MARY GARDEN 
 
 / don't care for her voice, but I think she's a wonder- 
 ful actress — The Cannery, Shelf K, Jar 48 
 
 CO wonderful your art, If you preferred 
 Drayma to opry, you'd be all the 
 mustard; 
 For you (ecstatic pressmen have averred) 
 Have Sarah Bernhardt larruped to a custard. 
 
 So marvelous your voice, too, If you cared 
 With turns and trills and tra-la-las to 
 
 dazzle, 
 You'd have (enraptured critics have 
 
 declared). 
 All other singers beaten to a frazzle. 
 
 So eloquent your legs, were It your whim 
 To caper nimbly In a classic measure, 
 Terpsichore (entranced reviewers hymn), 
 Would swoon upon her lyre from very 
 pleasure. 
 
 If there be aught you cannot do, 'twould seem 
 The world has yet that something to dis- 
 cover. 
 One has to hand it to you. You're a scream. 
 And 'tis a joy to watch you put it over. 
 
 71 
 
A LOVER'S COMPLAINT 
 
 "Undarned socks are signs of prosperity" — J Com- 
 mercial Authority 
 
 \\/'HENAS abroad my Julia goes, 
 
 Ah me, how disenchanting shows 
 A hole in Julia's silken hose! 
 
 And when I cast mine eyes and see 
 
 This puncture of prosperity, 
 
 Ah, how that puncture paineth me! 
 
 For what care I that rents are high. 
 That cost-of-living scales the sky? — 
 That hole offends the lover's eye. 
 
 My adoration 'gins to dim. 
 However neat and trig and trim 
 May be my Julia's ankle slim. 
 
 Ah me, again! If maidens knew 
 The damage such a rent will do, 
 'Twould never be exposed to view. 
 
 Instead they'd wear, when Boreas blows, 
 The reinforced and holeproof hose 
 That's Harveyized at heels and toes. 
 
 72 
 
THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE 
 
 npHE Golfer stood In his room at night, 
 
 Pitching balls to a padded chair. 
 He could work his mashie there all right, 
 But on the links he was in despair: 
 'Twas top and sclaff, 
 Till a horse would laugh. 
 And the best he'd get was a measly half. 
 "I never shall learn this game," quoth he. 
 "And Fd sell my soul for a seventy-threeT 
 
 No sooner said, on this fateful night. 
 Than the Devil walked in, with a bow polite. 
 "Pledge me your soul, my friend," said he, 
 "And to-morrow you'll shoot a seventy-three. 
 Don't think at all 
 
 Of stance or grip, 
 Just swat the ball 
 And let 'er rip. 
 Leave it to me: I'll turn the trick; 
 You pin your faith to your Uncle Nick." 
 "Done!" said the Golfer — "gladly, too." 
 "You're on," said the Devil. "Good-night 
 to you." 
 
Next day, when "Mac" drove off the tee 
 For the first long hole, he was down in three; 
 And every other, or near or far, 
 Was played, somehow, in exactly par. 
 He sliced, he hooked, he sclaffed, he topped. 
 But somehow or other he always copped. 
 If he hit a bunker he blundered o'er 
 And rolled to the pin for an easy four. 
 Over the green, or short, or up, 
 He trickled the next one to the cup. 
 Once, when he pulled to a bunker tall. 
 Which promised to grab and hold his ball, 
 A caddie said, as he rubbed his eye. 
 That a hoof had caromed the pellet by; 
 But none suspected, who saw it kick, 
 'Twas the cloven hoof of your Uncle Nick. 
 
 Hole by hole. 
 To the eighteenth goal. 
 Walked the man who had sold his soul. 
 Drive and iron, and pitch and poke, 
 Till, matching his card, his friends went 
 
 broke. 
 For, adding his score, they found that he 
 Had shot the course in a seventy-three! 
 
 74 
 
Whether his bargain he ought to rue 
 Depends of course on the point of view. 
 At least "Mac's" happier now by far 
 Than when he was eighteen over par. 
 He never worries about the trade, 
 
 Or ever gives it a thought at all; 
 And the only sign of the pact he made 
 
 Is a puff of smoke where he hits the ball. 
 
 75 
 
A BALLADE OF IMMORTALS 
 
 VVTOOF A400K, I admit, Is some name, 
 
 Dink Botts Is transcended by few, 
 Reserved In the Temple of Fame 
 A niche for Nik KIk and Jap Pugh; 
 WItz Wobbles Is something to chew, 
 Nor must Wava Junk be forgot; 
 But, take the Academy through, 
 Jet Wimp Is the best of the lot. 
 
 Lot Snoddy gets Into the game, 
 Kllm Strize has a place In the zoo, 
 Clint SIpe and Ed Ek we proclaim, 
 And others who pass In review. 
 Pod DIsmuke we would not pooh-pooh, 
 Consld'rable monicker, what.'' 
 But, give each Immortal his due. 
 Jet Wimp Is the best of the lot. 
 
 There's a chink and clink to the same; 
 
 It sticks, as tenacious as glue. 
 
 It makes all the others seem tame; 
 
 It's a scream, it's a hullabaloo. 
 
 Of all the cognomlnal crew, 
 
 I venture to ween and to wot. 
 
 Jet Wimp is the Who of "Who's Who," 
 
 Jet Wimp Is the best of the lot. 
 
 76 
 
Eh, Prince? I will leave it to you: 
 Oblivion never can blot 
 That name which will ever be new 
 Jet Wimp is the best of the lot. 
 
 77 
 
FAITH SERENE 
 
 ^^ Little man, why so hot?'^ — Emerson 
 
 VOU blaze when men assail your faith, 
 
 And torylsm wakes your ire: 
 Can you not summon up the wraith 
 Of Bruno in his shroud of fire? 
 
 You fume and fret at skeptic sneers, 
 
 And unbeliefs eternal clack; 
 Can you not cross the bridge of years 
 
 To Galileo on the rack? 
 
 These men of old who spread the light. 
 And died of torture and neglect 
 
 Had much to hazard for the right: 
 You merely stake your self-respect. 
 
 These men, who preached with holy zeal 
 The things that every schoolboy knows. 
 
 Were bent and broken on the wheel 
 By ruthless and fanatic foes. 
 
 But clear the anger from your brow; 
 
 Men are no longer racked and whipped. 
 The ruthless hand is palsied now, 
 
 And persecution's claws are clipped. 
 
 Confess your creed, be what it may. 
 And toward the light serenely move. 
 
 The simple faith you hold to-day 
 To-morrow's verdict shall approve. 
 
 78 
 
UTOPIA 
 
 \\/'HEN the Socialist programme is 
 carried, 
 
 With balm for our every hurt, 
 The world will no longer be harried 
 
 By poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 For each will be sure of a lodging, 
 
 And eatables daily, times three. 
 With never a debt to be dodging — 
 
 And heavens, how dull it will be! 
 
 Then Right, for a change, will be master. 
 
 And Justice will open her eyes. 
 The widow will fear no disaster. 
 
 The orphan will stifle his sighs. 
 With never a trouble to borrow. 
 
 From worry we all may be free. 
 The State will take care of to-morrow — 
 
 And heavens, how dull it will be! 
 
 No drinking, carousing, and fighting. 
 
 No sins that disfigure our time; 
 No journalists trained to the writing 
 
 Of stories of passion and crime. 
 Enough of the future is hinted; 
 
 Utopia you clearly foresee. 
 Newspapers of course will be printed — 
 
 And heavens, how dull they will be! 
 
 79 
 
THE LATEST BOOK 
 
 'RAFFLING, absorbing, astounding, in- 
 spiring,' 
 *Deliciously piquant,' 'original,' *grand,' 
 'Humor unflagging,' 'invention untiring,' 
 'With Dickens and Thackeray fitted to 
 
 stand,' 
 'Breathless,' 'exciting,' 'sensational,' 'rip- 
 ping/ 
 'Highly dramatic,' 'a masterpiece,' 'great,' 
 'Poignant,' 'authentic,' 'convincing and 
 
 gripping' — 
 So the reviews and advertisements state. 
 
 'Masterful,' 'marvelous,' 'massive,' 'amaz- 
 ing,' 
 'Witty and wise,' 'every promise fulfills,' 
 'Dazzling,' 'dumfoundering,' 'daring and 
 
 dazing,' 
 'Packed full of action,' 'abounding in thrills,' 
 'Charmingly whimsical,' 'striking,' 'com- 
 
 ' pelling,' 
 'Technic enormous,' 'it marks an advance,' 
 'All other writers of fiction excelling,' 
 'Wealth of ideas,' 'a brilliant romance.' 
 
 80 
 
Thus the reviewers in rapturous chorus; 
 Thus the book booster composing his brays. 
 Ripped are whole pages from Roget's The- 
 saurus, 
 Piled upon Ossa a Pelion of praise. 
 Greatest of novels, beyond contradiction, 
 Here is the triumph that none may deny; 
 This is the ultimate whisper in fiction. 
 Surely you'll read it. No.f* Neither shall I. 
 
 81 
 
MODERN MATRIMONY 
 
 He 
 r^EAR one, when we exchange our vows 
 
 We'll knot the loosest sort of tie; 
 For our Ideals, like our brows, 
 Are broad and high. 
 
 She 
 A simple hitch I should prefer, 
 
 As simple as we can devise; 
 A lovers'-bowline, as it were — 
 
 One yank unties. 
 
 He 
 
 This nuptial pact shall not coerce 
 Our own sweet wills a single jot. 
 
 We'll chop 'for better or for worse,' 
 And all that rot. 
 
 She 
 My love, your sentiments are mine; 
 
 I echo them with all my heart. 
 I simply can't endure that line — 
 
 'Till death us part.' 
 
 He 
 
 My Idol, I am overjoyed! 
 
 I shan't love twice, but if I should 
 This contract will be null and void: 
 
 That's understood. 
 
 82 
 
She 
 I shall not dream of liberty, 
 
 But if I should — you'll understand 
 The bonds that bind us now will be 
 
 As ropes of sand. 
 
 He 
 
 I am the needle, you the pole! 
 
 O Pole, my constancy you know. 
 But should I not remain heart-whole 
 
 I'm free to go. 
 
 She 
 I am the flower, you the sun! 
 
 O Sun, you know my constancy. 
 But if I choose to cut and run 
 
 You quite agree. 
 
 Together 
 Since you love me as I love you, 
 
 Herewith a sacred troth we plight. 
 Each to the other will be true: 
 
 If not — good night! 
 
 83 
 
OH JOY 
 
 It is announced that the watchword of the Little 
 Theater will be ^'Joy" 
 
 r^OME and trip it as ye go, 
 
 On the light dramatic toe. 
 Dole abandon, dry the tear, 
 Ye who hope to enter here. 
 
 For our end and aim is Joy; 
 All our offerings brace and buoy; 
 We whose watchword is "Be gay," 
 We will chase old Care away. 
 
 Are you morbid, are you blue? 
 Is the weary world askew? — 
 Do not drown yourself in drink; 
 Come and laugh with Maeterlinck. 
 
 Are you solemn, are you sad? — 
 Something Greek will make you glad. 
 Are you wallowing in grief? — 
 Ibsen will provide relief. 
 
 84 
 
Are you troubled with the pip ? — 
 There is balm in quirk and quip. 
 Strindberg is the man you need: 
 He's the cheery little Swede! 
 
 Haste thee, then, and let us prance 
 In a Dionysiac dance. 
 Come and trip it as ye go, 
 On the light dramatic toe. 
 
THE CURRENCY BILL 
 
 '^'OW, Jones was a man of a marvelous 
 mind 
 To which nothing was foreign or strange. 
 He could talk by the hour, 
 With a singular pov/er, 
 On topics the widest in range. 
 There was nothing in heaven and zero on 
 earth 
 That baffled his toppiece, until 
 He rashly one day 
 In a confident way 
 Attempted the Currency Bill. 
 
 The Tariff to Jones was as plain as a church, 
 He threaded its mazes with ease; 
 
 While the weight of the stars 
 
 Or the ditches on Mars 
 Were trifles for afternoon teas. 
 The color-line problem, the Japanese row, 
 He discussed with exceptional skill; 
 
 But his brain had a storm 
 
 When he tried to inform 
 His friends on the Currency Bill. 
 
 86 
 
That got him. His wits were reduced to 
 a pulp, 
 All crumpled the cells of his brain. 
 They took him away 
 In a wagon next day 
 To a place for the cureless insane. 
 He sits on a bench and makes figures and 
 things, 
 And all men may obtain, if they will, 
 From this bug financier 
 A remarkably clear 
 Account of the Currency Bill. 
 
 87 
 
THE JEST OF YESTERYEAR 
 
 '/^NCE upon a midnight dreary" — 
 
 Wait a moment, do not go; 
 This is not another weary 
 
 Paraphrase of Mr Poe. 
 True, the volume that I pondered 
 
 Was of quaint, forgotten lore 
 That got by (but how, I wondered!) 
 
 In the days entitled 'yore.' 
 
 Things were gathered in this volume 
 
 Over which our fathers roared — 
 Gems from many a by-gone colyum. 
 
 Writ by Billings, Twain, and Ward. 
 Some of it, of course, was funny. 
 
 More was sad as sad can be. 
 How it ever got the money 
 
 Is a miracle to me. 
 
 So, when dreary seems my colyum, 
 
 When I fear it grows a bore, 
 I take down that yellowed volume 
 
 Of forgotten comic lore. 
 Seeking vainly to discover 
 
 Something really rich and rare. 
 Gosh!" I say, "if that got over. 
 
 Why should anyone despair?" 
 
BETWEEN TWO CRITICS 
 
 XTOW, when I read Old Doctor Hackett 
 
 Upon the operatic racket 
 I murmur, as I tear my hair, 
 'Oh gosh, I wish that I'd been there!" 
 
 But when I turn to Doctor Gunn 
 And read of what was sung and done 
 I rearrange my hair and say, 
 'Oh gosh, I'm glad I stayed away!" 
 
 89 
 
OLD STUFF 
 
 TF I go to see the play, 
 
 Of the story I am certain; 
 Promptly it gets under way 
 
 With the lifting of the curtain. 
 Builded all that's said and done 
 
 On the ancient recipe — 
 'Tis the same old Two and One: 
 A and B in love with C. 
 
 If I read the latest book, 
 
 There's the mossy situation; 
 One may confidently look 
 
 For the trite triangulation. 
 Old as time, but ever new. 
 
 Seemingly, this tale of Three — 
 Same old yarn of One and Two; 
 
 A and C in love with B. 
 
 If I cast my eyes around. 
 
 Far and near and middle distance, 
 Still the formula is found 
 
 In our everyday existence. 
 Everywhere I look I see — 
 
 Fact or fiction, life or play — 
 Still the little game of Three: 
 
 B and C in love with A. 
 
 90 
 
While the ancient law fulfills, 
 
 Myriad moons shall wane and wax. 
 
 Jack must have his pair of Jills, 
 Jill must have her pair of Jacks. 
 
 91 
 
VAGUE MEMORIES 
 
 J REMEMBER only vaguely 
 
 The house where / was born. 
 Of course, the prehistoric sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn; 
 And this I do remember — 
 
 He always came too soon, 
 For ever since I was a child 
 
 I've wished to sleep till noon. 
 
 I have no recollection 
 
 Of flowers red and white, 
 Nor birds (except canaries) 
 
 To charm my childish sight. 
 And, now I come to view it, 
 
 This does not seem so queer, 
 For home was a metropolis 
 
 Until my eighteenth year. 
 
 Of course I can remember 
 
 The universal swing. 
 For even In a New York yard 
 
 They had that sort of thing. 
 "My spirit flew In feathers then," 
 
 It whizzes that way now; 
 And all that I could ask would be 
 
 More feathers on my brow. 
 
 92 
 
I remember, I remember 
 
 The clothes-poles bald and high; 
 I used to shinny up them then, 
 
 But now Vd sooner die. 
 I might pursue for pages 
 
 This vein of vague regret, 
 But that the union scale demands 
 
 Four rhymes to each octette. 
 
 93 
 
LOVE'S AU REVOIR 
 
 ' QINCE thereby no help, come let us kiss and 
 
 part, — 
 Nay I have done, you get no more of meJ^ 
 To bring to perfect flower my strange wild 
 
 art, 
 To live my strange wild life, I must be free. 
 
 ^^ Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows. 
 And when we meet at any other time,^' 
 Let there be no suggestion In our brows 
 That I've philandered In a foreign clime. 
 
 ''^ Now at the last gasp of lovers latest breath, 
 When, his pulse failing, passion speechless 
 
 lies;' 
 Remember! — I'm another's until death. 
 Or tin this new Infatuation dies. 
 
 Au revoir! When we return (If I recover) 
 We'll get together, all four, and talk It over. 
 
 94 
 
THE GENTLE CRITIC 
 
 "^ DISMAL occupation mine," 
 The Gentle Critic cried, 
 To castigate one's dearest friends 
 
 And lacerate their pride. 
 Oh what a painful thing it is 
 To cavil and to chide! 
 
 'Whenever there's an opening 
 I always have the blues, 
 
 And to the hateful theater 
 I fare in leaden shoes. 
 
 And what a bitter task it is 
 To ventilate my views! 
 
 Indeed it is a gloomy trade 
 
 To reprobate and ban. 
 For actors are a kindly folk 
 
 Who do the best they can; 
 And oh it is a joyless job 
 
 These kindly folk to pan. 
 
 "I weep for them," the Critic said, 
 "I deeply sympathize," 
 
 Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
 Before his streaming eyes, 
 
 While sorting from his adjectives 
 Those of the largest size. 
 
 95 
 
^'NOTHING TO WEAR" 
 
 \/|ISS Flora McFlimsy of Michigan Boul. 
 In spite of hot weather is perfectly- 
 cool. 
 
 She has it all over her namesake, the fair 
 
 Miss Flora McFlimsy of Madison Square, 
 Who, ages ago. 
 As most of you know, 
 
 Lamented the fact she had "nothing to 
 wear." 
 
 Miss Flora of old bought her drygoods in 
 Paris; 
 
 She shopped (you recall) with her friend 
 Mrs Harris. 
 
 Her garments were many, and costly and 
 rare. 
 
 And yet she complained she had nothing to 
 wear. 
 
 But Flora McFlimsy of Boulevard Mich. 
 Dispenses with ev'ry superfluous stitch. 
 And clad in a single diaphanous gown 
 Parades in the sunlight, the joy of the town. 
 "And if I show through. 
 What harm does it do.^" 
 Says Flora McFlimsy; "I leave it to you." 
 
 96 
 
Why, none whatsoever, we beg to reply. 
 You are all to the good to our critical eye. 
 Proceed, Miss McFlimsy, as far as you 
 
 wish; 
 Parade in the sunlight on Boulevard Mish., 
 And let, if it please you, your vanishing 
 
 dress 
 Grow fine by degrees and delightfully less, 
 
 Until, like the dame 
 
 Of evergreen fame. 
 You really have nothing whatever to wear, 
 Excepting a hank of remarkable hair. 
 And should you appear as the Lady Godiva, 
 We'll stand on the corner and hand you a 
 'Viva!' 
 
 97 
 
TO LUCASTA 
 
 'T^ELL me not, sweet, I am unkind 
 
 Because I heave a sigh 
 At thought of comforts left behind, 
 As countryward we fly. 
 
 Like you I hate, with hatred deep, 
 
 The city's broil and brawl; 
 But ah! to-night — where shall I sleep? 
 
 Or shall I sleep at all? 
 
 Like you, my love, I deeply crave 
 
 A touch of wood and wold; 
 But shall I skip my morning shave, 
 
 Or shave in water cold? 
 
 I loathe the city's grime and heat — 
 
 We cannot fly too fast; 
 But what, this week-end, shall I eat? 
 
 Or shall I sooner fast? 
 
 I love to hear the crickets rub 
 
 Their legs in choric glee; 
 But where, to-morrow, shall I tub? 
 
 Or shall I tubless be? 
 
 98 
 
I joy to hear the froglets shrill 
 
 Across the boggy lea; 
 But well I know the chiggers will 
 
 Not do a thing to me. 
 
 A bas the town! Vive solitude! 
 
 Hail, lovely country scenes! 
 All that you lack are beds and food 
 
 And porcelain tubs and screens. 
 
 So, think not, sweet, I am unkind 
 If I perchance should sigh 
 
 For creature comforts left behind, 
 As from the town we fly. 
 
 99 
 
TO AN APRIL EGG 
 
 Lines dashed of while the coffee percolated 
 
 tTGG, ere I crack you I would muse upon 
 The flight of time — a topic somewhat 
 frayed. 
 Ah me, some seven moons have come and gone 
 Since you were laid. 
 
 Much water, Egg, has washed the miller's 
 
 wheel 
 Since that far morn when first you saw the 
 
 light. 
 And now you bless my matutinal meal! 
 You bless — or blight. 
 
 For though I have my grocer's guarantee 
 That you are fresh, as fresh as may be had, 
 I'll lay him eight to five, or eight to three, 
 That you are bad. 
 
 Hence, Egg, I hesitate ere I apply 
 The knife. Art sweet, or rotten to the core? 
 The question gives me pause. Ah me! as I 
 Remarked before. 
 
 Enough of musing. Let us look inside. 
 Ah, yes. An ^gg of prehistoric breed. 
 Some long-lost April. Jane, the window — 
 wide! 
 
 Ah me. Indeed! 
 
 100 
 
ESPECIALLY "THRU" 
 
 'NJOT least of Life's Little Afflictions, 
 
 To me, is the spelling that's simp. 
 A murrain and all maledictions 
 
 On spellers who mangle and skimp! 
 Their symbols as tortured and twisted 
 
 Are really too bad to be true; 
 I loathe every word they have listed — 
 
 Especially 'thru.' 
 
 To me the form 'prolog' is painful. 
 
 And 'catalog' gives me the pip; 
 Than 'thoro' there's nothing more baneful, 
 
 And 'program' would make a saint rip. 
 Oh wildly my hair I dishevel 
 
 At 'fotograf,' 'handsum,' and 'nu,' 
 For all of them look like the devil — 
 
 Especially 'thru.' 
 
 Reforms there's no shadow of call for 
 
 Encumber and clutter the earth; 
 It's funny what people will fall for 
 
 To give some reformer a berth. 
 Now, tak this dam simplifide speling — 
 
 Yes, tak it away 2 the Zu. 
 I lothe evry word beeond teling — 
 
 Espeshely 'thru.' 
 
 101 
 
BALLADE OF THE 
 CHRISTMAS NUMBER" 
 
 A 
 
 "NUMBER" colored for Christmas 
 week, 
 
 Polychromatic beyond compare! 
 Words to describe it I vainly seek; 
 O'erwhelmed with wonder I sit and stare. 
 Some of the pictures are pretty fair, 
 Some are indifferent, some are flat; 
 But one there is that is rich and rare — 
 Give me the Guy in the Blue High Hat. 
 
 I like the girl of the umber cheek, 
 And her of the French-vermilion hair; 
 The maid with the madder dog's unique, 
 And the tot w^ith the peagreen teddybear. 
 I'm charmed by the person debonair 
 Of the purple boot and the mustard spat, 
 And yet a preference I must air — 
 Give me the Guy in the Blue High Hat. 
 
 102 
 
The crimson crow with the sky-blue beak 
 May not be paralleled anywhere; 
 And oh what a wild prismatic shriek 
 Are He-and-She in the cadmium chair. 
 The dame in the passionate pink portiere, 
 The cobalt cop and the carmine cat 
 Are good, but for one I chiefly care — 
 Give me the Guy in the Blue High Hat. 
 
 Color? The rainbow is on a tear, 
 The well-known prism is on a bat. 
 Color.? My choice I must still declare — 
 Give me the Guy in the Blue High Hat. 
 
 103 
 
MEDITATIONS BY A MOSSY STONE 
 
 "Give me ten accomplished men for readers, and I 
 am conienf — Walter Savage Landor 
 
 "YY/'HAT? Ten accomplished readers? 
 
 That, meseems, 
 Puts much too high a value on a pen. 
 I never in my most presumptuous dreams 
 Have thought of ten! 
 
 Content, indeed! I should be flattered pink; 
 To please a smaller clientele I strive. 
 I've never thought, nor ever dared to think, 
 Of six — or five. 
 
 Why, five accomplished readers are a host; 
 So large a number quite abashes me. 
 If I have thought at all, I've thought, at 
 
 most 
 Of two — or three. 
 
 And when I view this Motley Monument 
 Of jape and jingle, paragraph and pun. 
 I sometimes feel that I should be content 
 With one — or none. 
 
 104 
 
NEW LEAVES 
 
 ^^And every day that Pve been good, I get an orange 
 after jood'^ — Stevenson 
 
 l^ROM now until the new year ends, 
 This my resolve, and naught can 
 swerve it: 
 I will not knock my various friends 
 Unless my various friends deserve it. 
 
 105 
 
TO CONTRIBUTORS 
 
 ALTHO' the children of your brain 
 
 May fail, perchance, of publication, 
 Think not, Contribs, your efforts vain 
 Or lacking an appreciation. 
 
 It is my habit when I ope 
 
 The stack of thoughts you daily utter, 
 
 To let each literary hope 
 
 Gently beneath the table flutter — 
 
 All save the few for which there's room, 
 Or that may find a corner later. 
 The others flutter to their doom, 
 And huddle 'gainst the radiator. 
 
 And here to this poetic heap 
 Of jests and jingles without number 
 The office kitten comes to sleep. 
 Ah, what a couch for feline slumber! 
 
 She paws in the poetic pile. 
 Contributed by many muses; 
 She builds a bed to suit her style. 
 Then, purring, settles down and snoozes. 
 
 106 
 
And so, dear friends, your little lays 
 Are certain of appreciation. 
 Breathe to yourself this paraphrase 
 Of poet Southey's dedication: — 
 
 Go, little thought, from this my pipe; 
 Be on your way, and do not tarry. 
 Though you may miss the Line-o'-Type, 
 You'll help to make a bed for Carrie." 
 
 107 
 
THE LONG AND THE SHORT OF IT 
 
 "pOR love of Mike," some readers say, 
 What do you mean by w. k. ?" 
 The least reflection would have shown 
 It could mean nothing but w. k. 
 
 Then, many clever folks confess 
 They cannot fathom s. to s. 
 Surely that shouldn't be all Greek: 
 What can it mean but s. to s.? 
 
 From Denver writeth Mr Neff, 
 Who cannot puzzle out o. f. 
 Surely a man's to be compassioned 
 Who hesitates before o. f. 
 
 Again, we are besought to tell 
 What's understood by b. and 1. 
 And yet it's obvious as a barge 
 That b. and 1. is b. and 1. 
 
 Another pens, "I hate to trouble you, 
 But what is meant by b. t. w. ?" 
 And we supposed 'twas plain as day 
 It represented b. t. w. ! 
 
 108 
 
We even have been asked to spell 
 That curt locution, m. or 1. 
 Now, anybody ought to guess 
 That m. or 1. is m. or 1. 
 
 So geht es. Almost e. o. d. 
 We get requests to "print a key," 
 And e. o. d., we haste to say, 
 Is short for e. o. d. 
 
 109 
 
ISLES OF SAFETY 
 
 'To avoid colds, keep out of crowds''^ — Dr Evans 
 
 pjOW can I 'scape a crowd to-day 
 
 In all this teeming city? 
 I know. I'll go to see a play 
 That's really wise and witty. 
 
 But if too many should be there, 
 
 The atmosphere a-tainting, 
 I'll hunt a picture gallery where 
 
 They charge to see a painting. 
 
 If some one there should chance to be. 
 And still I'd dodge the pub., 
 
 I'll hie me to the library 
 Of almost any club. 
 
 To other places I may go, 
 For ample breathing spaces; 
 
 And doubtless, reader, you too know 
 A lot of likely places. 
 
 110 
 
THE SATURATION POINT 
 
 Lines -precipitated by witnessing a performance 
 of "Conchita" 
 
 T DON'T object to Sex, as such; 
 'Tis not my mind to flout it. 
 This world would not amount to much, 
 One may concede, without it. 
 
 But Lord! I'm sick of plays that sound 
 
 An ^elemental passion,' 
 In which folks drag each other round 
 
 In elemental fashion. 
 
 I'm tired of 'primal passion' fits. 
 
 In opry and in drammer. 
 Oh can the passional jiu-jits', 
 
 And open up some glamour. 
 
 HI 
 
 k 
 
"LET NOT AMBITION MOCK" 
 
 'T^HERE dwells among the trodden ways, 
 
 Within the limelight's glow, 
 A man whom very many praise 
 And many others know. 
 
 Though high his titles, wide his fame, 
 
 And boundless, too, his pelf, 
 I do not know this person's name; 
 
 He does not know himself. 
 
 That is (to make my meaning clear), 
 
 He's known from sea to sea; 
 And yet 'twould tax the deepest seer 
 
 To say who he may be. 
 
 I mean (more simply still to state). 
 
 His name is now unknown; 
 And yet we know relentless fate 
 
 Has marked him for its own. 
 
 Although his name may be to-day 
 
 On many a person's tongue. 
 In one short year he'll fade away, 
 
 Unwept, unsobbed, unsung. 
 
 112 
 
He little recks that Nemesis 
 Will snatch him by surprise: 
 
 And sure, where ignorance is bliss 
 'Twere folly to be wise. 
 
 Who is this man so prominent? 
 
 Why must he fade so soon? 
 He is our next Vice President: 
 
 The blow will fall in June. 
 
 And then — cold, gray Oblivion! 
 
 Let not ambition mock 
 This brother to the mastodon 
 And cousin to the roc. 
 
 113 
 
PROPERTIUS SINGS 
 
 BOOK I. ELEGY I 
 
 "PAIR Cynthia was first to undo me, 
 
 I fell for her beautiful eyes; 
 And soon every Roman that knew me 
 
 To my Indiscretions got wise. 
 Some gait has yours truly been going — 
 
 I've hit all the high-spots of sin; 
 The wild oats that I have been sowing 
 
 Would fill, crede mihi, a bin. 
 
 Milanion, who loved Atalanta, 
 
 Succeeded by being a pest — 
 Contriving at last to Implant a 
 
 Reciprocal love in her breast; 
 But I've been so long ofT the v^^'oo stuff, 
 
 I'm either a boob or too bold; 
 I'm jerry to none of the new stuff. 
 
 And I have forgotten the old. 
 
 Ye abracadabra professors. 
 
 Ye wizards and ringers of bells. 
 Compounders of pills, and possessors 
 
 Of magical passwords and spells, 
 Get next to the dame of my fancy. 
 
 And make me look good In her sight; 
 Come on with your damned necromancy, 
 
 Or else, for Propertius, good night! 
 
 114 
 
Oh, me for the wings of the morning, 
 
 The uttermost parts of the earth! 
 Vd leave to all lovers a warning, 
 
 To chew on for all it is worth. 
 And this my advice (if you ask it): 
 
 From paths that are primrose refrain: 
 Put all of your eggs in one basket, 
 
 The love that is safe and is sane. 
 
 115 
 
ON THE FLOOR 
 
 Quoth the Raven, ^''Nevennore! Throw that stuff 
 tipon the floor r^ 
 
 T} EADERS send me every day 
 
 Quips and jingles by the score; 
 Some of which, I grieve to say, 
 Must be thrown upon the floor. 
 
 Some are clever, some are crude. 
 Some have been in print before; 
 Some, alack, are much too good . 
 To be tossed upon the floor. 
 
 Space, however, has its bounds, 
 As I've mentioned heretofore; 
 And however sad it sounds, 
 Something must go on the floor. 
 
 It is not that I regard 
 Things / write superior: 
 Many a gem of mine is barred. 
 And is flung upon the floor. 
 
 Many a mighty line I trace, 
 Many a thought in which I soar; — 
 But there simply isn't space, 
 So I cast it on the floor. 
 
 116 
 
Do I hear some reader say, 
 Do I hear some reader roar, 
 * Why not print my verses, pray? 
 Pitch your verses on the floor!" 
 
 True, I've used up precious space 
 (And shall need a little more) 
 To present my simple case — 
 Why I chuck things on the floor; 
 
 But I fear you're unaware 
 Just how keenly I deplore 
 The compulsion brought to bear 
 When I drop stuff on the floor. 
 
 You don't always know, I fear, 
 That I read your verses o'er 
 And, with many a briny tear. 
 Throw them sadly on the floor. 
 
 117 
 
THE ETERNAL BROMIDE 
 
 'y^/'HEN Adam dolve and Eva span, 
 And through the paths of Eden 
 strayed, 
 He cut for her a fig-leaf fan — 
 
 'Twas ninety-something in the shade. 
 For days the temperature ran high, 
 
 'Twixt ninety and a hundred ranging; 
 Said Eve: "What funny weather! My! 
 I think the climate must be changing." 
 
 When good King Arthur held his court, 
 
 And Guin with all her maidens gay 
 Went forth in flowery meads to sport, 
 
 All in the merry month of May, 
 The day fell hot, and Guinevere 
 
 And Miss Elaine exclaimed together. 
 The climate must be changing, dear; 
 
 I never knew such funny weather." 
 
 From neo-lithic days to now. 
 
 Recurrent this phenomenon; 
 The world has mopped a dripping brow 
 
 And passed the hoary saying on. 
 And while the sun pours forth its heat. 
 
 The wits of mortal man deranging, 
 We'll echo that bromidic bleat, 
 "I think the climate must be changing." 
 
 118 
 
THE CREDIT SIDE 
 
 A^/'HATEVER your opinion of my 
 strummings, 
 
 Whatever your opinion of my lyre, 
 Whatever my poetical shortcomings, 
 
 However much I leave you to desire; 
 Tho' every song I sing should be a flivver. 
 
 One feather in my cap were sticking still — 
 I never said that "life is Hke a river," 
 
 Or "faring up a hard, high hill." 
 
 I am at times, conceivably, bromidic; 
 
 My metaphors you may have met afore. 
 I am net always startling or fatidic; 
 
 My similes, conceivably, may bore. 
 My phrases may not set you all a-quiver, 
 
 Their power to surprise you may be nil; 
 But — I never said that life is like a river. 
 
 Or climbing up a hard, high hill. 
 
 One can't be sempiternally sulphitic, 
 
 One has to broach a bromide now and then ; 
 And so I crave indulgence of the critic 
 
 If now and then a commonplace I pen. 
 Whatever be the goods that I deliver, 
 
 I've never sung and never, never will 
 Articulate that life is like a river 
 
 Or toiling up a hard, high hill. 
 
 119 
 
DEGENERATE DAYS 
 
 A LTHOUGH not of a cloistral turn, 
 
 I do not care for fistic fetes. 
 I never yearn a single yearn 
 
 For pugilistic joint debates. 
 Descriptions of affrays Homeric 
 Leave me as cool as Robert Herrlck. 
 
 'TIs not a temperamental chill. 
 
 I do not hesitate to say 
 I'd like to watch an old-time mill 
 
 If I might sit, a summer's day. 
 Beside Carlnthia In her carriage. 
 (See Meredith's "Amazing Marriage.") 
 
 Translate me to that vanished year, 
 A mise en scene like that disclose. 
 
 And I should joy to see and hear 
 
 The ding-dong-bang on jaw and nose 
 
 The play of mighty paws, sans mittens, 
 
 Swung in an "upright fight of Britons." 
 
 But modern fistics do not thrall; 
 
 They're of a very different grain. 
 The Jeffs and Corbetts, one and all, 
 
 Give me, I'm free to say, a pain. 
 Enthusiasm.^ Not a riffle. 
 Fight news, to me, is awful piffle. 
 
 120 
 
So should I seem to knock the game, 
 A scornful finger seem to point, 
 
 I hope it's clear I'm not to blame. 
 But that the time is out of joint. 
 
 That I should find the thing a bore is 
 
 The fault of Tempora and Mores. 
 
 121 
 
WHEN I AM GONE 
 
 In the manner of Mr Le Gallienne 
 
 \\/'HEN I am gone, 
 
 In the sweet bye and bye, 
 The same old sky 
 Will meet the same old plain — 
 When I am gone. 
 Yes, bye and bye, 
 Some sweet young thing, with face against 
 
 the pane, 
 Will scan the sky. 
 And say, "I'll take m'umbrella; it may 
 
 rain" — 
 When I am gone. 
 
 122 
 
PROMETHEUS BOUND 
 
 r^HAINED like Prometheus to his rock 
 
 Am I, and pecked of inky flock, 
 Because, this daily lump to leaven, 
 I filched a little fire from heaven. 
 
 Not more, I swear, than three per cent. 
 Yet sure and swift my punishment: 
 A flock of carping birds of prey 
 Are pecking at me all the day. 
 
 Well, let them peck, and peck again. 
 Mine be Promethean disdain. 
 Impervious as his classic rock 
 To every veiled or obvious knock. 
 
 Mine is the punishment of one 
 Who lights his taper in the sun, 
 A visitation dark and dire 
 On him who steals immortal fire. 
 
 The one compunction that I feel 
 Is that it was so small a steal. 
 Hang it! I wish I'd filched enough 
 To put a flame in this here stuff. 
 
 123 
 
SUPPLICATION 
 
 T^IND me in paper or hind me in hoards; 
 If merit there he, let the text within show it. 
 Let nothing he added, 
 DonH let me he ^padded,'' 
 And keep me from heing an ''Ooze Leather 
 Poet: 
 
 124 
 
INDEX 
 
 After the Moving 
 
 60 
 
 Art Insurgent 
 
 44 
 
 Ballade of the "Christmas Number" 
 
 102 
 
 Ballade of Immortals, A 
 
 76 
 
 Ballade of a Moss-Grown Symbol 
 
 32 
 
 Ballade of Oblivion 
 
 56 
 
 Ballade of One Virtue 
 
 68 
 
 Ballade of Star Dust, A 
 
 22 
 
 Battle Song 
 
 28 
 
 Between Two Critics 
 
 89 
 
 Bon Voyage! 
 
 66 
 
 Bygones 
 
 40 
 
 Canopus 
 
 14 
 
 Children 
 
 29 
 
 Commerce and Art 
 
 64 
 
 Credit Side, The 
 
 119 
 
 Currency Bill, The 
 
 86 
 
 Cussed Damozel, The 
 
 17 
 
 Degenerate Days 
 
 120 
 
 Devil's Disciple, The 
 
 73 
 
 Especially "Thru" 
 
 101 
 
 Eternal Bromide, The 
 
 118 
 
 Faith Serene 
 
 78 
 
 Gadder, The 
 
 18 
 
 Gentle Critic, The 
 
 95 
 
 Great Obsession, The 
 
 62 
 
 Height of the Artistic, The 
 
 42 
 
 Hence These Tears 
 
 20 
 
 Iconoclasts, The 
 
 36 
 
 Invocation 
 
 13 
 
 Isles of Safety 
 
 110 
 
 Jest of Yesteryear, The 
 
 88 
 
 Kitchen Garden of Verses, A 
 
 52 
 
 Latest Book, The 
 
 80 
 
 Lay of the Last Golfer, The 
 
 65 
 
INDEX— Continued 
 
 "Let Not Ambition Mock" 112 
 
 Long and the Short of It, The 108 
 
 Lover's Complaint, A 72 
 
 Love's Au Revoir 94 
 
 Meditations by a Mossy Stone 104 
 
 Modern Matrimony 82 
 
 New Leaves 105 
 
 "Nothing to Wear" 96 
 
 Oh Joy 84 
 
 Old Stuff 90 
 
 On the Eve 30 
 
 On the Floor 116 
 
 Post-Impressionism 38 
 
 Prometheus Bound 123 
 
 Propertius Sings 114 
 
 Rime of the Betsy Jane, The 24 
 
 Road to Anywhere, The 50 
 
 Saturation Point, The 111 
 
 Season Opens, The 70 
 
 Silver Birches 49 
 
 Song-^Mr C-rn-g-e 54 
 
 Spring in the Shops 16 
 
 Supplication 124 
 
 Those Flapjacks of Brown's 26 
 
 To an April Egg 100 
 
 To Contributors 106 
 
 To Julia— Styles of 1913 58 
 
 To Lucasta 98 
 
 To Mary Garden 71 
 
 To the Proof Room 34 
 
 Utopia 79 
 
 Vague Memories 92 
 
 When I am Gone 122 
 
 W^hite-Throat, The 48 
 
 Wood Memories 46 
 
018