and Other Poets Life s Aspiration See page 107 and Other Poets BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER With frontispiece by GEORGE WOLFE PLANK 55 NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1916 959 Utl a COPYRIGHT, 1916 BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS RAHWAY, N. J. CD FRANKLIN P. ADAMS WITH ALL SORTS OF FRIENDSHIP, ADMIRATION AND APOLOGIES ..." INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN " 333775 PREFATORY NOTE " PARODY/ said someone, and it must have been G. K. Chesterton, " is the critic s half- holiday." . . " Far from converting virtue into a paradox and degrading truth by ridicule," (I am quoting Isaac D Israeli) "parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a criti cal exposition." Casting about for something between an apology and an air of dignity the parodist usually fishes up phrases like the foregoing ones. Or, if he has an educative turn of mind, (and he generally has) he pre faces his collection with a disquisition on the various forms and classes of parody; pointing out the difference between the mere burlesque of sound and the subtler (and more critical) parody of sense. After which the reader is rather sharply told that the latter form is the only one worth serious consideration. The reader is also given to understand, in a coy 7 8 Prefatory Note and surprisingly modest last sentence, that the present parodist employs only this more ele vated and illuminating method. Having thus established and betrayed my own position I immediately disclaim it. Hav ing spiked my own guns I cannot very well announce that I have attempted to parody the thoughts, moods and manners of the poets vic timized rather than any specific work, and that in only one case did I have a particular poem in mind. Neither can I now lay claim to any educative and serious pretensions. Nor can I go on to say anything about the forms and functions of parody; pointing out the differ ence between the mere burlesque of sound and the subtler (and more critical) parody of sense. I will add however, that throughout " this slender sheaf of verse," (I quote from Felicia Hemans, The Bookman and the Pub lishers Fall Catalogue) the latter form has been given serious consideration, and that the present parodist has employed only this more elevated and illuminating method. L. U. NEW YORK, 1915. CONTENTS PAGE 7 THE BANQUET OF THE BARDS / I JOHN MASEFIELD . 15 II EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON . 19- Ill WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS . . 2O IV ROBERT FROST 22- V WALTER DE LA MARE . 26 VI VACHEL LINDSAY . I . 28 VI I LASCELLES AB_ERCROMBIE 34 VIII EDGAR LEE MASTERS . 36 IX RALPH HODGSON . 39 X STEPHEN PHILLIPS 4i XI OWEN SEAMAN 43 XII GILBERT K. CHESTERTON . 46 XIII JAMES OPPENIIEIM . . 48 XIV WILLIAM WATSON . . 51 XV WILLIAM ROSE BENET . 52 XVI EZRA .P-aum 55 XVII SARA TEASDALE . 58 9 10 Contents XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI XXVII FRANKLIN P. ADAMS . AMY LOWELL . W. H. DAVIES . . RUDYARD KIPLING . ROBERT CARLTON BROWN JOHN HALL WHEELQOL HARRY GRAHAM . ALFRED NOYES AUSTIN DOBSON . WITTER BYNNER . 59 64 66 69 72 74 76 78 ATTEMPTED AFFINITIES I HEINRICH HEINE AND CLINTON SCOLLARD II ANDREW LANG AND OSCAR WILDE . III P. B. SHELLEY AND LAURENCE HOPE . . 87 IV HERRICK AND HORACE . . 89 V ROBERT BROWNING AND AUSTIN DOBSON . 91 VI A. C. SWINBURNE AND F. LOCKER- LAMPSON 93 VII JOHN KEATS AND MADISON CAWEIN 95 Contents 1 1 PAGE VIII W. E. HENLEY AND FRANQOIS VILLON 98 IX E. A. POE AND THE PRE-RAPHAEL ITES . ..... 101 X BEN JONSON AND HARRY B. SMITH 103 PIERIAN HANDSPRINGS LIFE S ASPIRATION . . . . . .107 THE DRAMA OF SUMMER . . . . . 108 " BUT IT WAS FIRST TO FADE AWAY " . HO THE SEASON S ROUND, OR FROM COURT TO COURT H2 INSCRUTABILIA 114 HAMMOCK LITERATURE . . . . 116 RONDEAU . . . . . . . .118 FRUSTRATE 119 NOCTURNE * . 121 For the privilege of reprinting most of the verses included in this volume, the author thanks The Century Company, The Smart Set, Life, The New York Call, and The New York Tribune. Thanks are also due to The Century Magazine for permission to reproduce the frontispiece, copyright by The Century Company. THE BANQUET OF THE BARDS JOHN MASEFIELD Pressed for a Narrative, Tells the True Story of Tom, Tom, the Piper s Son. THOMAS, the vagrant piper s son, Was fourteen when he took to fun; He was the eighth of a bewilderin Family of eleven children. Mary, the first of all the lot, Was married to a drunken sot; And Clement, second on the list, Fell off the roof and was never missed. Susan and little Goldilocks Were carried off by the chicken-pox, And Franky went though I can t recall Whatever happened to him at all. The same with the next one, black-eyed Jim ; Nobody knew what happened to him. And Nell went bad she broke the laws And shamed her folks on account of a Cause 1 ; 15 1 6 The Banquet of the Bards And the last they saw of her, her wrists Were tied to some other suffragists . Thomas was next and he s still alive The only one of them all to thrive. The rest just petered out somehow At least, nobody hears of them now. Now Tom, as I said when I d begun, Was fourteen when he took to fun. Wine was the stuff he loved to swim in ; He lied and fought and went with women. He scattered oaths, as one flings bounties, The dirtiest dog in seven counties. One morning when the sun was high And larks were cleaving the blue sky, Singing as though their hearts would break With April s keen and happy ache, Thomas went walking, rather warm, Beside old Gaffer Hubbard s farm. He saw that wintry days were over And bees were out among the clover. Earth stretched its legs out in the sun; Now that the spring was well begun, John Masefield 17 ^Heaven itself grew bland and fat. So Thomas loafed a while and spat, And thought about his many follies Yonder the gang was tipping trollies. The sight made Tom s red blood run quicker Than whisky, beer or any liquor. " By cripes," he said, " that s what I need; Twill make a man of me indeed. Why should I be a drunken slob When there s Salvation in a job ! " He started up when lo, behind him, As though it sought to maim and blind him, A savage pig sprang straight against him. At first Tom kicked and fought and fenced him, And then he fell. But as they rolled Tom took a tight and desperate hold And thought the bloody fight was over. " Here is one pig that s not in clover To-night I ll have you in my cupboard." Who should come up but Gaffer Hubbard. " Leggo that pig." "What for?" says Tom. " It s mine, you lousy, thieving bum." 1 8 The Banquet of the Bards " It ain t." " It is." "Clear out!" " We ll see." "Til fix ee!" " Better let me be." With that the farmer turned again And called out half a dozen men. Up they came running. " Here," said he, " Here is a pig belongs to me But ye can have it all for eating If you will give this tramp a beating." " Hurroo ! " they shouted in high feather, And jumped on Thomas all together. So the pig was eat, and Tom was beat; And Tom went roaring down the street! EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON Tells What He Knew of Simple Simon. WHAT does it matter who are we to say How much is clear and how much there must be Behind his mystical directness see, He left us smiling, and a bit astray. Yet there were times when Simon would convey A cryptic sharpness, etched with something free; For he was touched with fire and prophecy, And we who scarcely knew him, mourn him. ... Eh? I ll say this much for Simon : If his ghost Has half the life of many men, or most, He will not rest in the ophidian night. He will come back and storm the western gate, Scorning such lesser things as Death and Fate. . . . Well, there is that side, too. . . . You may be right. 19 WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS Gives a Keltic Version of Three Wise Men of Gotham. DOWN by the clashing waters the three wise men did go, And there they cut a hazel wand and laid it on the snow. They plucked the apples of the sun from many a cedar tree, And heard the white hound calling and thus they put to sea. The Shadowy Horses of the wind followed the Hornless Deer. The reeds were full of silver sounds, the waters full of fear; The Rose put forth its thorny feet and danced to an old tune, And in the grass the Purple Pig bayed at the whimpering moon. 20 William Butler Yeats 21 And I shall always hear it, that white and silent song; And I shall cut a hazel wand and carry it along; And I shall cast it over the waves and let it find the track Of those who went to sea in a bowl and never once turned back. ROBERT FROST Relates The Death of the THERE were two of us left in the berry-patch; Bryan O Lin and Jack had gone to Nor wich. They called him Jack a Nory, half in fun And half because it seemed to anger him. So there we stood and let the berries go, Talking of men we knew and had forgotten. A sprawling, humpbacked mountain frowned on us And blotted out a smouldering sunset cloud That broke in fiery ashes. " Well," he said, "Old Adam Brown is dead and gone; you ll never See him any more. He used to wear A long, brown coat that buttoned down be fore. That s all I ever knew of him; I guess that s all 22 Robert Frost 23 That anyone remembers. Eh? " he said, And then, without a pause to let me answer, He went right on. " How about Dr. Foster? " " Well, how about him ? " I managed to reply. He glared at me for having interrupted. And stopped to pick his words before he spoke; Like one who turns all personal remarks Into a general survey of the world. Choosing his phrases with a finicky care So they might fit some vague opinions, Taken, third-hand, from last year s New York Times And jumbled all together into a thing He thought was his philosophy. " Never mind; There s more in Foster than you d understand. But," he continued, darkly as before, " What do you make of Solomon Grundy s case? You know the gossip when he first came here. Folks said he d gone to smash in Lunenburg, And four years in the State Asylum here 24 The Banquet of the Bards Had almost finished him. It was Sanders job That put new life in him. A clear, cool day; The second Monday in July it was. on a Monday, that is what they said. Remember the next few days? I guess you don t; That was before your time. Well, Tuesday night He said he d go to church; and just before the prayer He blurts right out, I ve come here to get christened. If I am going to have a brand new life I ll have a new name, too. Well, sure enough They christened him, though I ve forgotten what ; And Etta Stark, (you know, the pastor s girl) Her head upset by what she called romance, She went and married him on Wednesday noon. Thursday the sun or something in the air Got in his blood and right off he took sick. Friday the thing got worse, and so did he; And Saturday at four o clock he died. Robert Frost 25 Buried on Sunday with the town decked out As if it was a circus-day. And not a soul Knew why they went or what he meant to them Or what he died of. What would be your guess?" " Well," I replied, " it seems to me that he, Just coming from a sedentary life, Felt a great wave of energy released, And tried to crowd too much in one short week. The laws of physics teach " " No, not at all. He never knew em. He was just tired, " he said. WALTER DE LA MARE Tells His Listeners About Jack and Jill. UP to the top of the haunted turf They climbed on the moonlit hill. Not a leaf rustled in the underbrush; The listening air was still. And only the noise of the water pail As it struck on a jutting stone, Clattered and jarred against the silence As the two trod on alone. . Up to the moonlit crest they went; And, though not a word would they say, Their thoughts outnumbered a poet s love-songs In the first green weeks of May. 26 Walter De la Mare 27 The stealthy shadows crept closer, They clutched at the hem of Jill s gown; And there at the very top she stumbled, And Jack came shuddering down. Their cries rang out against the stillness, Pitiful and high and thin. And the echoes edged back still further As the silence gathered them in. VACHEL LINDSAY Borrows a Megaphone and Chants The Glorious Fourth. I [Very fast and explosively] Bang! And the dawn Burst madly on The world like a cosmic cannon-cracker. And the great cloud-pack Began to crack Like a stack of black and crackling lac quer. Bang - bang - bang - bang - BANG! BANG! The echoes crashed, The echoes smashed, The echoes flashed And dashed abashed 28 Fachel Lindsay 29 Out of the city and never stopped. And a thousand small boys gayly dropped Paper torpedoes Like outworn credos. And under the tin-cans, Sputtering within cans, The fire-crackers puttered as they pop- pop-popped : " Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers Bang bang - bang - bang - BANG! Pop. ... [Softer, but vibrantly; the a sounds very brassy.] Then I heard the battle, Then I saw the flare; Then I heard the muskets rattle Through the shuddering air. 3<3 The Banquet of the Bards [With a heavily accented rhythm; very so norously.] Gone were the urchins and the city- streets; Gone were the merchants and the snares and cheats. Lo, from the mist of more than six score years, Rose the thunder of a nation s cheers; [Very oratorically.] Boys and farmers shook the old world s pride And a thousand Washingtons went forth and died. II [With increasing speed and a large orchestra; re-inforced by a wind-machine, sixteen cymbals and extra brasses.] ssssSSHHhh Now the light goes And suddenly there Vachel Lindsay 31 The dark earth glows Transfigured and fair, As the first roman-candles leap in the air. And now the first Great flower-pots burst And the pin-wheel whirls like a fiery sprocket; And lo, like a bolt released from its socket, Trailing its fires Like fierce desires, On-on-upward goes the first sky-rocket. [With a sustained hissing through the teeth.] Siss-siss-ssscreaming through the startled skies, Siss-siss-ssspilling stars before it dies. Sissboom ak. . . . ssssSHhh. . * . A-a-h. ......... [With even greater fervor, if possible.] Then I saw a people, Then I heard a shout, 32 The Banquet of the Bards While from hearth and steeple All the bells rang out. [In a ringing voice, like a set of chimes.] Heard the loud bells, proud bells, spire- bells, Heard the call bells, hall-bells, fire-bells, Gay bells, sleigh-bells, night and day bells; Singing there and swinging there and all together ringing there : "Ding-dong - clangaranga - boom, boom- ah. Ding-dong - clangaranga - boom, boom- ah; Rejoice, oh people, ye shall live and be Free and equal in a land made free ! " WHAT? " Well, almost equal almost free. Fear no more from tyranny, But with loud democracy While the starry symbol waves In a land of liberty, Yankees never shall be slaves ! " Fachel Lindsay ^3 Bang, bang; ding-dong boom, boom-ah; Clangaranga, clangaranga - sis-boom-bah. Bang - Bang - bang - bang - BANG! Ssshh Pop. . . . Pop. . . . Pop. . . . Bah. ! LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE Eulogizes Humpty Dumpty. UPON the wall, frowned on by envious stars, He sat, secure above the lurching world. The shrill, sweet business of the venturous day Flowed at his feet and, sweeping forward, sang. Over his head the lavish heavens spread Sunset and sun, twilight and burning cloud ; And every radiant and launching wind, Bore him cool pleasures on its smooth, blue back. And yellow morning, slipping over the hills, Shedding her cloak of dawn, reached out her hands And clasped him first of all things. Now he lies, Fallen, irrevocably ruined, here. He, who was once as keen and tuned for joy As harps made ready for a hero s welcome, 34 Lascelles Abercrombie 35 Or girls in April trembling against love. There are no kings, and no king s cunning horses Can place him back upon his excellent emi nence ; Not all the workmen from the shops of Heaven Can re-establish him or send the blood Thrilling with insolent music through his veins. Deaf to the trumpeting winds and seas he lies. Yet in this brave and silent unconcern He shall command a rapt, exulting reverence; Quiet and awe shall blaze about his head, Kindling a glory in our darkened lives. EDGAR LEE MASTERS Adds a Tombstone from The East River Anthology. MAURICE VERNON I WAS just sixteen, In the queer twisting of a delayed adolescence, When I came to New York; To study the classics, as my mother said. And, according to my father, to become a man. I liked the prep, school I attended- It was such a pleasant place to get away from. Often I neglected Terence for the tango, Or Livy for Lillian Lorraine. I was just learning to wear my dinner-jacket In that " carefully careless " manner indorsed by Vogue, When my father died bankrupt; Throwing me upon my own resources. 36 Edgar Lee Masters 37 Then I found I hadn t any. So, knowing how to use neither my hands nor my brain, I remembered my feet And became a chorus man. For years I was with Ziegfeld and K. and E. Then the dance-craze came and swept me to the heights. I became a teacher to the most exclusive My name was in electric lights six feet high. The clippings I collected, placed end to end, Would have reached from Dantzig to Wal- singham and back. Then one night I turned my ankle. When I was able to get up again The public had flocked to another favorite So I entered an Endurance Dancing Carnival And waltzed myself to death. There is a great, saintly-looking fellow here Whom some call Vitus. And many dervishes And a fine sultry-eyed girl By the curious name of Miriam. 38 The Banquet of the Bards But most of all we love to watch a certain princess; Her veils uncoil like seven serpents And she carries a dark head on a silver platter. She dances to it forever. RALPH HODGSON Rides a Lyrical Cock-Horse to Banbury Cross. LITTLE Old Lady, Stop and come here; Pause in the heyday Of your career. Put up your rings and bells, Cover your toes; Here is a music That nobody knows. Here, with the leafy throngs, You shall learn all the songs Chanted by toads and trees; And the far melodies Sung by the gypsy moon. You shall hear every tune Waken that ever was Murmured within the grass. 39 4O The Banquet of the Bards Secrets shall rise and float Out of the linnet s throat; And every lily s bell Shall yield its miracle. You shall know all the fair Import of every air; Even the half-formed wish Blown by the dreaming fish. If you will stay with me This shall be so; You shall hear music Wherever you go. Here where it s shady Naught hurries past. Life, you Old Lady, Why go so fast? STEPHEN PHILLIPS Takes Old King Cole on a Sedate Stroll Through Bulfmch s Mythology. HE lived, an ancient and senescent king, Long after Jupiter had loosed his bolts; After gray Dis had locked his awful doors And high Olympus crumbled into dust. Merry he was, a blithe and genial soul; Happy as Dionysos and as fond Of games and dances as that smiling god. Often he called, full loudly, for his bowl, A bowl more vast than ever Bacchus owned; Or e er Silenus dipped into and held For tipsy Nymphs or Thyiades to quaff. Then called he for his pipe not for the reed Fashioned by Pan to ease his futile love Or Syrinx trembling at the river-bank; Not for the simple pipe that Paris played When he was shepherding on Ida s hill; 41 42 The Banquet of the Bards But such a pipe that flamed and smoked as though Twere Ilium that burned. And fiddlers three He bellowed for musicians bland of touch As Orpheus when he swept his singing lute Amid the ancient silences and stars; Or Marsyas when he brought the roseate blush To Fair Aurora s cheeks, and dreamy birds Amid the boundless blue sang sweeter than The Muses choiring on Parnassus slope. Thus he sat, bosomed in olympian calm, And drank a mirth deep as Pierian founts; Till laughter touched the pity of the Fates, And Grief sank weeping in the stygian night. Establishes the Entente Cordiale by Reciting The Singular Stupidity of J. Spratt, Esq., in the Manner of Guy Wetmore Carryl. OF all the mismated pairs ever created The worst of the lot were the Spratts. Their life was a series of quibbles and queries And quarrels and squabbles and spats. They argued at breakfast, they argued at tea, And they argued from midnight to quarter past three. The family Spratt-head was rather a fat-head, And a bellicose body to boot. He was selfish and priggish and worse, he was piggish A regular beast of a brute. At table his acts were incredibly mean; He gave his wife fat and he gobbled the lean! 43 44 The Banquet of the Bards What s more, she was censured whenever she ventured To dare to object to her fare; He said " It ain t tasteful, but we can t be wasteful; And someone must eat what is there ! " But his coarseness exceeded all bounds of con trol When he laughed at her Art and the State of her Soul. So what with his jeering and fleering and sneering, He plagued her from dawn until dark. He bellowed " I ll teach ye to read Shaw and Nietzsche " And he was as bad as his bark. " The place for a woman " he d start, very glib. . . And so on, for two or three hours ad lib. So very malignant became his indignant Remarks about " Culture " and " Cranks," Owen Seaman 45 That at last she revolted. She up and she bolted And entered the militant ranks. . . When she died, after breaking nine-tenths of the laws, She left all her money and jewels to the Cause ! And THE MORAL is this (though a bit ab struse) : What s sauce for a more or less proper goose, When it rouses the violent, feminine dander, Is apt to be sauce for the propaganda. GILBERT K. CHESTERTON Rises to the Toast of " Coffee. 1 STRONG wine it is a mocker; strong wine it is a beast. It grips you when it starts to rise; it is the Fabled Yeast. You should not offer ale or beer from hops that are freshly picked, Nor even Benedictine to tempt a benedict. For wine has a spell like the lure of hell, and the devil has mixed the brew; And the friends of ale are a sort of a pale and weary and witless crew; And the taste of beer is a sort of a queer and undecided brown But, comrades, I give you coffee drink it up, drink it down. With a fol-de-rol-dol and a fol-de-rol-dee, etc. . . 4 6 Gilbert K. Chesterton 47 II Oh, cocoa s the drink for an elderly don who lives with an elderly niece; And tea is the drink for studios and loud and violent peace And brandy s the drink that spoils the clothes when the bottle breaks in the trunk. But coffee s the drink that is drunken by men who will never be drunk. So, gentlemen, up with the festive cup, where Mocha and Java unite; It clears the head when things are said too brilliant to be bright! It keeps the stars from the golden bars and the lips of the tipsy town. So here s to strong, black coffee drink it up, drink it down. With a fol-de-rol-dol and a fol-de-rol-dee, etc. JAMES OPPENHEIM Rises with a Psycho-Analytic E^gression and Stars. I I AM chained with the fetters of love I can never escape. Like a slave who scarcely dares dream of his freedom I am beaten and bound. And lo, in the fetters of love, I can only strug gle and die. Save me, ye confident stars; Save me, oh God-yeasted life. Folded in the black wings of night ; bathed in the fires of creation, Tasting the dark brew of the elements, I drink infinity, as a child at the breast of its mother. James Oppenheim 49 II The little earth rolls in the womb of the skies Next door a baby was born, it cried at its birth. Its mother and father wept at its coming; They were too tired to hope; even too tired to die. . . She had the soul of a dancer she crawled and stumbled through life; He had the soul of a leader they made him a slave. Lifeless they rose to their work, lifeless they came to their bed; Stumbling, like all of us dead, to a quieter death. Next door a baby was born it cried at its birth. . , v I shall not be enslaved; I shall tear myself free! Oh, the conquering urge of the unleashed libido 50 The Banquet of the Bards Spilling the suns in their courses and spurring the world. Oh Nietzsche, Whitman, Havelock Ellis, Lin coln, Freud and Jung Help me to cast off these wrappers of custom and prohibition, Tear down the barriers of reticence. Let me outgrow these swaddling-clothes of sex Let me stand, facing the candid gaze of an eternal dawn, Clad in the dazzling splendor of my awakened Self. WILLIAM WATSON After a Titanic Struggle, Gives Birth to An Epigram. WHEN royal Love designs to visit Man He dons his purple robes, his crown of fire; And, with a treasure-laden caravan, He smiles and goes accompanied by De sire. But, when Love designs to come to Woman, he Puts off his royal vestments, leaves his throne; And with nor pride nor pompous pageantry, He goes so every woman says, alone. WILLIAM ROSE BENET Sings The Slave Trader s Chanty. ALL the way to Guadaloupe, around the horn and back again, Shores that seem a dusky dream of ebony and spice; Shifting of our cargoes there and out upon the track again, Loaded down with black and brown and magic merchandise. Isfahan and Hindustan, we leave em all in peace again. Up the straits and through the gates of hell itself we roar. For now we hold the talisman, we ve found the Golden Fleece again; Slaves are what we re after and we ve shipped a hundred more ! 52 William Rose Benet 53 CHORUS So, sing a song of bank-notes, a cabin full of rye; Four and ninety blackbirds for any man to buy; Four and ninety blackbirds jammed into the hold And we re the mystic merchants, for we turn em into gold! II We used to hear the jackal scream, we listened to the cockatoo; " Arroompah " went the elephant, a-thun- dering in his bones. The Indian girls were free with pearls and stuffed em in our pocket too; The very sands of those far lands were strewn with shining stones. It cost us time and money then, perhaps a strong-armed hint or two To barter with a Tartar though we robbed him all we could. 54 The Banquet of the Bards But now some colored beads, a keg of rum, a gaudy print or two And we re a thousand dollars (and a nig ger) to the good! CHORUS Four and ninety blackbirds of every size and shade; Four and ninety blackbirds, safe as safe can be. Boreas shall blow for us; Poseidon s hand shall guide us; Mercury shall chauffeur us, And Fortune walk beside us. Apollo too shall join the crew and sing as loud as we, A catch and a carol to the old Slave Trade; The sport of all the Kings that sail the sea! EZRA POUND Putting on a Greek Head-Dress, Provengal Slippers, and an Imagiste Air, Recites : TIHA I COME, my songs, let us sing about some thing It is time we were getting ourselves talked about. i II [The iron menace of the pillar-box is threatening the virginity of night. )h, Lars Porsena, let us be naked and impu dent, as the first day of April, or Bernard Shaw without a toga. | Let us run up behind people and pinch them in their too-fleshy ankles, in the green twilight; 55 56 The Banquet of the Bards Male and female alike (I hear that they read you, Walt Whitman) Eheu, eheu fugaccs sic semper sic transit et cetera Loosen thy chrome girdle; Unveil the crux ansata oh Ardanari-Iswari. Ill TO A VERY CERTAIN LADY Cybele, Cybele, you have grown sleek and damnably patronizing. You pat me on the head, indolently, as though I were a green puppy from Patagonia ; You tell me your love is platonic, and your passion has cooled to me, Like a porcelain pitcher in which hot water for shaving has been standing for hours. Go to put on your latest Basque tea-gown And catch other tadpoles in your cheap net. Ezra Pound 57 Marry, as you most likely will, a Chicago mil lionaire, (I can imagine no worse end for you) And cultivate the Indiana literati Your heart is an empty dance-hall : With lights blazing and musicians playing on mute instruments SARA TEASDALE Looking as Sapphic as possible, Recites "A Song." I HID my heart in the wind, The cool, young wind of May For I knew that my love would find And carry it away. Happy I lay and dumb; Held in the sun s warm clasp; For I knew that my love would come, And see it there, and grasp. I saw him stoop and start; And then oh day turned black ! My love picked up my heart And brought it safely back. FRANKLIN P. ADAMS Adds to the Gayety of Libations by Adapt ing the Eleventh Ode of the Fourth Book of " Horace 1916 Model." " Est mihi nonum superantis annum. . ." SEE, Phyllis, I ve a jar of Alban wine, Made of the choicest grapes that one can gather. Vintage ? Well, yes its years are more than nine. Inviting? Rather. And that s not all our well-known festive cheer There s ivy in the yard, and heaps of pars ley. Come, twine some in your hair and say, old dear, Don t do it sparsely. 59 60 The Banquet of the Bards The flat s all ready for the sacrifice; In every corner handy to display it, There s silver. . . Yes, the house looks extra nice, If I do say it. The very flame is trembling, and the smoke Goes whirling upward with an eager rust ling; The household s overrun with busy folk. Just see them hustling! What s that ? You want to know the cause of this? Why, it s the birthday of friend P. Mae cenas ; And doubly dear because the season is Sacred to Venus. Some holiday? Some holiday is right! And well, my Latin heart and soul are in it. Therefore I hope you ll be on hand tonight Eh?. . . . Just a minute. Franklin P. Adams 61 Telephus? Pah. He isn t worth a thought If Telly dares neglect you, dear, why let him! He s nothing but a giddy good-for-nought. Come and forget him. Come, and permit your grief to be assuaged; Forsake this flirt on whom you have your heart set. Besides, Dame Rumor hath it he s engaged " One of our smart set." From vain desires and too ambitious dreams The doom of Phaeton s enough to scare you. . . This is ahem my favorite of themes But, dear, I spare you. Come then, so that the evening may not lack Your voice that makes each heart a willing rover ; And, as we sing, black Care will grow less black Oh, come on over. AMY LOWELL Brushing up Her Polyphonic Prose, De claims Fortitude. ZIP ! The thought of you tears in my heart. I fumble and start. I mumble and trip. Zip ! The night is a blur. The yellow wax candles whimper and stir. And I, on my way to the heavens, am hurled to the jabbering world. Down, down to the hideous level of Brown; to the Jones, Cohns and various Malones, I sink. The sails of my spirit sag and shrink. The rains of distemper ruffle my feathers and put out my fire. The Zeppelins in my soul drag in the mire; they shiver and rip. Zip! In my neighbor s garden a blue herring sings. Twee twee. . . On the topmost bough of a cinnamon tree he throws his rap ture like a fine spray against the stony night. Over and under the petulant silver thunder of the fountains he cries. I hear silver and 62 Amy Lowell 63 mauve . . . and the faint sheen of olives. The green echoes rise. They break, these thin- stemmed glasses of sound; ground and shat tered by the still skies. The pale herring s song is long with a slender perfume. A whiff of red memories blows through the gloom . . . and melts on the tongue. Into the room a young, blond wind ripples and laughs. She stammers and speaks with a breath that is full of blush-roses and leeks. And the moon, with out warning, comes eerily from the west. He staggers wearily, knowing no rest; lurching out of a cloud and singing aloud. He too laughs; a crazy laughter breaking through his scars. Like a drunken Pierrot spilling the stars from his too-long sleeves. The sun grieves and looks down reprovingly. And the day bursts forth, rejoicing alone. Darkness is overthrown as the great wheels turn. In a thousand factories the tungstens burn. The shaftings worry and moan. The dynamos drone. . . Pardon me. There goes the phone. . . W. H. DAVIES Rises with Elaborate Simplicity and Sings a Spring Song of a Super-Blake. , THE grass is green, } The sky is blue, The bird will preen, The cat will mew. The fly has wings, The child a toy- Such little things Do give me joy. The tree has leaves, The road has miles, And nothing grieves Whene er it smiles. The crops have sun; The streams close by Do ramble on, And so do I. 6 4 W. H. Davies 65 And happy then My lot shall be While rook and wren Build in the tree; While ring-doves coo, And lions roar, As long as two And two are four. RUDYARD KIPLING Is Prevailed upon to Read His Unpublished War-Poem England Speaks. I TRULY ye are my Sons; and I as your Mother will bide Even before I could need ye, ye sprang full- armed to my side. Your swords have flashed from their scab bards, waiting my lightest call; And I that have borne and bred ye, would I could bleed for ye all. Now we must meet Death daily, valiantly face to face. Aye, for the good of the Peoples, for the sacred hopes of the race, Flesh of my flesh ye have answered; waiting no word ye arose From the home of the fevered East- wind and the haunts of the Virgin snows. 66 Rudyard Kipling 67 From its rock where Cape Town gazes over the herded seas, From the gray wild tides that threaten the gray Antipodes, Ye have rushed like waves from the waters, resistless and free and tall And I am the Mother that bore ye; would I could bleed for ye all. II Yea, we are sworn to the Law, bearing the strength of the clan; We have made our peace with Adam-zad, the bear that walks like a man. Mighty are we, and our Allies weary never nor sleep; For greater than guns or nations are the pledges that we keep. Honor shall stand behind us, Lust and Dark ness shall run Yea, and the years shall find us curbing the savage Hun, 68 The Banquet of the Bards As long as England s roast-beef shall strengthen England s tars, And the English navies tower under the English stars. While the Lord of Hosts, Jehovah, fights on the English side, And the very skies of England lift with an English pride, Wrapped in her fog like a mantle, and fired with English ale, As long as she lists to her poets, England can never fail! ROBERT CARLTON BROWN Emits a Few Bubbles. I CHEESES I AM the king of the rats. And all my thoughts are little mice. They have a great way of running every where, And a greater hunger. Nothing will satisfy their ferocious appetite Not even when they have devoured the world, And gnaw on the thin, gray rind Of the mouldy skies. II COLUMBUS CIRCLE Is this China? Something tells me it must be. It may be the fantastically-colored Chop-Suey joint 6 9 70 The Banquet of the Bards Above the Child s restaurant at the corner. Or it may be the lone traffic policeman Standing like a blue Buddha With his one eternally upraised arm. Or it may be the mass of amber electric lights Dropping from the sign boards, Like globules of gold perspiration From a Chinaman s yellow brow. JOHN HALL WHEELOCK Sums up Love, Life, Liberation, Etc. THE world is hungry for Beauty; With eager and terrible eyes It strains to its passionate bosom Each tawdry and tender surprise. Common and liberal and holy, The songs of its spirit ascend Lavish and casual and conquering, Reckless and glad at the end ! HARRY GRAHAM Adds to His Misrepresentative Men, a Pic ture of J. M. Barrie. THIS is an ever-changing world (A truth that needs but small adorning), Our last night s standards all are furled, New banners bear new truths this morning. And, far from foolish jest, the fact is Today s fad is to-morrow s practice. Shaw rules the hour; the callow cub Stirring his toddy with a lemon in Is haunted even at the club By visions of the Shavian feminine. The sweeper, with an accent foreign, Is (pro and) conning Mrs. Warren. Enough, enough we gladly turn And never for a moment tarry Until we reach that happy bourne Of childhood beauty built by Barrie. 72 Harry Graham 73 Where eyes and skies are always blue, And every dream s a Dream-come-true. Under his spell we children love Each frail-spun token of his fancy; " Believe in fairies? " Heavens above We all do save the man who can see* No beauty in each simple tune Of Peter Pan and Pantaloon. First, second childhood s faith is his. Sophists and scholars go and come, he Proves that each Little Mary is Naught but a Sentimental Tummy. And, like the pulse of eager drums, Our hearts beat at the sound of : " Thrums." * sfs * * * * * Master, here at your feet I lay A witless rhyme, unskilled, but showing The heart of one who walks your way And hears " the horns of elfland blowing." Who burlesques when he most reveres; And winks an eye to hide his tears. * I think my italics save an otherwise hopeless line. The Proofreader. Thanks. The Author. ALFRED NOYES Responds to The Lyric. I IN the Garden of Poems where each is a flower, The Ode is an orchid resplendent and rare; The Sonnet s a classical lily whose power Moves every heart like a dignified prayer. The Ballad s a hollyhock, quaintest and queer est Of old-fashioned flowers that memory knows But all these seem faded when Song s at its clearest And the heart of a lyric s the heart of a rose. II So give me the lyric while Nature is teeming With rhythm and rhyme; while our vol umes are filled 74 Alfred Noyes 75 With poems of wild and importunate dream ing, And Heaven itself is uplifted and thrilled. The universe rocks to the swing of a ballad, But it warms to a deeper and mightier mirth Aye, robbed of its Song the bright world would be pallid; For the soul of a lyric s the soul of the earth. Ill For Song is eternal; it rides on the aeons Tis shod with men s visions and mystical wings; Tis April that quickens the pulse of its paeans, And Passion that beats in the heart of all things. You can fathom the ode, be it sad or satiric, You can measure the sonnet with rule and the rod But no one can tear out the soul from the lyric; For the lilt of a lyric s the laughter of God! AUSTIN DOBSON Recites a Ballade by Way of Retort. (" Anna s the name of names for me") W. E. Henley. " ANNA " ! Insipid and weak as gruel " Anna " ! As flat as last night s beer Plain as a bed-post and stiff as a newel, Surely there s nothing of glamour here! Names by the hundred enchant the ear, Stirring the heart with melodious claims; Arrogant, timid, impulsive and dear Rose, after all, is the name of names. Sally gleams like a laughing jewel, Bella s jovial, Maud s austere; Rachel s complacent, Lydia s cruel, Laura is classical, Fanny is queer. Peggy reminds one of rustic cheer, Lucy of lilies and lofty aims, Lola of fancies that shift and veer Rose, after all, is the name of names. 76 Austin Dobson 77 Sara s a fire for all men s fuel, Mary s a comfort for all men s fear, Helen s the smile that invites the duel, Chloe s the breath of a yesteryear, Margaret somehow evokes the tear, Lilith the thought of a thousand shames; Clara is cool as a lake and clear Rose, after all, is the name of names. ENVOY Hannah s for home and the woman s sphere ; Vivian s all for dances and games; Julia s imperious, Kate is sincere Rose (after all) is the Name of Names! WITTER BYNNER Is Prophetic Concerning Bo-peep in the New World. BO-PEEP was crying. Softly she complained, " My thoughts, my well-beloved sheep, are lost; And now I do not know Where I may find them. High and low I ve searched, wind-blown and theory-tossed, But they are gone/ she said. ..." I used to follow them where er they led, And never once disdained To walk the queer and twisting paths they went; Stumbling, but well content I followed, bent On learning Life no matter how it pained. Now pulled by this new interest, now by that, I leaped from dizzy rock to rock; Thrilled by the shock 78 Witter Bynner 79 Of being swept and hurled Into a new and deeper-breathing world. Happy because I saw Poems and pains and people in the raw; Glad of the exquisite feeling that, Touching the common things of earth, I was a democrat. . . And now, I see How much my faith was worth. My own emotions, frank and free, Have, with a heartless, rude democracy, Deserted me. I have learned disillusion, to my cost And so I weep. My thoughts, my well-beloved sheep, Are lost." Then I replied: " Bo-peep, look upward ; do not be A doubter of democracy. Be lifted by a fresher, lowlier pride. Fling wide The glorious gates of your vast woman-soul; So The Banquet of the Bards And you shall find each thought, Nobler and finer-wrought, Eager to enter once again; For you shall be their goal. And then, Like wanderers on a homeward track, Beauty shall bring them back; Bringing a thousand tales with them . . . Back to the broad expanse and breathless view ; To this placid forest s glittering hem, They shall come back to things they never knew; Visions of men and dreams unfurled Back to a richer and more radiant world, And to you. ATTEMPTED AFFINITIES THE POET BETRAYED HEINRICH HEINE and CLINTON SCOLLARD Construct a Rondeau. IMMORTAL eyes, why do they never die? They come between me and the cheerful sky And take the place of every sphinx-like star. They haunt me always, always; and they mar The comfort of my sleek tranquility. In dreams you lean your cheek on mine and sigh; And all the old, caressing words float by. They haunt me always, always; yet they are Immortal lies. Oh love of mine, half-queen, half -butterfly, You tore my soul to hear its dying cry, 83 84 Attempted Affinities And soiled my purpose with a deathless scar. Go then, my broken songs, go near and far And woman s love and her inconstancy Immortalize. THE PASSIONATE AESTHETE TO HIS LOVE ANDREW LANG and OSCAR WILDE Turn a Nursery Rhyme into a Rondeau Redouble. Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine? Thou shall not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine, But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. Curly-locks, Curly-locks, brighten and beam Joyous assent with a rapturous sign; Hasten the Vision quicken the Dream Curly-locks, Curly-locks, wilt thou be mine? Curly-locks, Curly-locks; come, do not deem Thou need st not be mindful of sheep or of kine; 85 86 Attempted Affinities Thou shalt not peel onions nor cook them in steam, Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine. Curly-locks, Curly-locks, thou shalt recline Languid and limp by a silvery stream; Thou shalt not grieve though the world is malign, But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam. Curly-locks, Curly-locks, oft as we dine I shall read verses of mine ream upon ream; Whilst thou shalt applaud me with, " Ah, that is fine," And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. Come, while the days are all laughter and shine ; Come, while the nights are all silence and gleam. Youth is a goblet ; Love is the wine ; And Life is a lyric that has but one theme : " Curly-locks Curly-locks! " A MALAY LOVE-SONG P. B. SHELLEY and LAURENCE HOPE Meet in a Pantoum. I SWOON, I sink, I fall Your beauty overpowers me; I am a prey to all The yearning that devours me. Your beauty overpowers me It never gives me rest; The yearning that devours me Is loud within my breast. It never gives me rest. And tho a wilder ringing Is loud within my breast, I have no heart for singing. And tho a wilder ringing Comes ever and again, I have no heart for singing And Music is a pain. . . 87 88 Attempted Affinities Comes ever and again The vision of your beauty; And Music is a pain, And Life a weary duty. The vision of your beauty Arises everywhere; And Life a weary duty Is more than I can bear. Arises everywhere Your face. Your subtle splendor Is more than I can bear Oh love, be not so tender. . . Your face, your subtle splendor I am a prey to all. . . Oh love, be not so tender ! I swoon, I sink, I fall. "INTEGER VITAE . . ." HERRICK and HORACE Rewrite the Latter s 22nd Ode, Book I. Fij;,cus, dear friend, I prithee lend An ear for but a space, And thou shalt see How Love may be A more than saving grace. As on a day I chanced to stray Beyond my own confines Singing, perdie, Of Lalage Whose smile no star outshines So tranced were all That heard me call On Love, that (from a grot) 89 90 Attempted Affinities A wolf who heard That tender word, Listened and harmed me not. Thus shielded by The magicry Of Love that kept me pure, I live to praise Her wondrous ways Where er I may endure. There s but one plan: The honest man Wears Vertue s charmed spell; And free from vice, That man lives twice Who lives the one life well. TO HORACE BROWNING Supplies the Matter; DOBSON the Meter. , master of song and the lyric Satiric, Your verse is a storehouse of riches, The which is Far greater than any great measure Of treasure. How the lines that begin " Donee grains " Elate us. The odes to Maecenas and Phyllis, They thrill us With hints of old stories and glories Mores! No more dare we laugh with you, Horace; A chorus Of students and sages are gleaning The meaning That lurks in your light-hearted phrases. Their craze is 91 92 Attempted Affinities To find neath the jest in each column Some solemn, Deep thought or where some hidden woe lay. Tis droll, eh? How they treat you in Learning s dim halls; so You re also (You, Horace you drainer of Massic) A classic! We must place, then, your book with those late ones, " The Great Ones," Whose volumes lie, more than respected, Neglected. So farewell (and what irony plans it!) Sic transit LIGHT-VERSE LILITH As A. C. SWINBURNE and F. LOCKER- LAMPSON Might Have Collaborated. WHAT artist I wonder could draw you; What painter could hope to portray The grace that was yours when I saw you Alone at the end of the day. There was love in the lines of your bodice, There was magic in many a fold; And your glance had the glow of a goddess, My Lady of Gold. You were reading some book of the hour; And, skimming the pages in haste, You paused to adjust a white flower That had dropped from the ones at your waist. Your cheeks were the confident color That Coty or D Orsay supplies; And the pearls and the diamonds were duller Than ever your eyes. 93 94 Attempted Affinities Your blushes were blissful and blameless, A mingling of lilies and fire Yet I knew you at once for a shameless And impotent mock of desire. For your lips were revealed when I saw you They were cruel and careless and cold And I wonder what artist could draw you, My Lady of Gold. FAERIES JOHN KEATS and MADISON CAWEIN Dis cover Them Together. I HAVE heard music as of tiny strings Fashioned of corn-silk, plucked by silver hands; I have heard music; as if murmurous wings Stirred in the air to rouse the elfin bands. Pallid preludings where the rose-tree stands And a voice that sings. . . A voice that sings so low, that did not you Know of the forest spirits, you would think, It was a wind that passed the woodland through ; And that, among the leaves, the lamps that wink Are naught but fireflies; that no faeries drink The midnight dew. 95 96 Attempted Affinities Lilies, whose lantern-light glows on the green, Bend neath the pressure of their tinkling feet; Daisies and daffodils may now be seen Gently to bow and sway as if to greet, And loose a petaled tribute as were meet A faery queen. And see, between the boughs, a breathless glance Of frisking elves that frolic through the night ! Glitter of blade and shimmering sword and lance; Sparkle of lucent jewels, so richly bright, One might mistake for flickering moon beam light The faeries dance. Nearby, behind a soft and cloudy hill, The faery-lovers from the dance have strayed; Keats and Cawein 97 The winds come here on tip-toe and they thrill With echoes of an elfin serenade. . . There is a human footstep in the glade And all is still. . . I have heard music bluebells ringing clear, And ever faint the veery s rising song. I have heard faery voices, strangely near, Coaxing the sleepy flowers to join the throng. . . A lush and fragile singing that I long Once more to hear. PESSIMISM IN THE SLUMS W. E. HENLEY and FRANCOIS VILLON Find a Few Things in Common. SAY, you there, guzzling from your dinky pail, Pipe to my lay, and if it don t offend Cut out the booze a minute; there s a tale Some gringo-poet-dub once tried to send Across the boards. D ye savvy, compre hend? A pote what wrote real man-talk on the dead One who could put your think-tank on the bend ; And, with a lot of other guff, he said: " Life hands us all a lemon in the end/ He says, says he : " The joys of life are stale; Punk, on the fritz; you never can depend 98 Henley and Villon 99 On nothing, cept, of course, the county jail That s the caboose where every vag can spend His month or more." And so he says: " Extend- Cut loose, vamoose; go hit the trail instead. For if you think your luck is on the mend, Remember, though you ve found an easy bed, Life hands us all a lemon in the end/ " Drive it in, cull, it s sharp as any nail; Stronger than Durham of the toughest blend; The guy that said : " There s no such word as fail " Must have seen things that make a bloke descend From off the sprinkling-cart. Say, why pre tend Things can be rosy when you re underfed? No one returns the money that you lend No one gives nothing; not a sou, a shred. . . Life hands us all a lemon in the end. ioo Attempted Affinities ENVOY Life? It s a pair of dice that s plugged with lead; A crooked game where Death s the dealer s friend. And when we cash our chips in for the red Life hands us all a lemon in the end ! LENORE LIBIDINA E. A. POE and THE PRE-RAPHAELITES Join Hands. HE yearned to her with every call and fresh Lure of her wanton flesh. " Let Death withhold his hands till I have been Held in your fluent hair as in a mesh; Unpenitent and glad, exulting in Some strange and splendid sin! " Give me your lips again, your hands, your frail Beauty, perverse and pale; Your eyes that tremble like a startled wren. Here is my solace; here all wisdoms fail; Here is more strength than in a world of men Your lips. . . again again! . ." IO2 Attempted Affinities Then, like a wave, the madness leaped and died; Passion grew hollow-eyed. Her voice no longer swayed; the music thinned. . . And as, with sickening soul, he turned aside, The moon, a goblin riding on the wind, Peered through the blinds and grinned. "THE KISS IN THE CUP" BEN JONSON and HARRY B. SMITH Concoct the Annual Drinking Song for the Annual Casino Comic -Opera. I OH some may quaff their tankards and laugh With many a flowery toast. They will sing of pale or nut-brown ale Or the draught they love the most. But I despise such mirth, for I prize A sweeter and headier wine So drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine. REFRAIN When you drink (Clink-clink) Then I think (Clink-clink) That I might of Jove s nectar sup; Don t deny (Hi-hi) When I sigh (Fill high!) Won t you leave just a kiss in the cup! 103 104 Attempted Affinities II Who can control the thirst of the soul And, dear, that plight is mine. A thirst that gnaws from such a cause Must have a drink divine. So while my glass is raised, alas, My heart is offered up. And there you may sip with your eyes and your lip, If you ll leave just a kiss in the cup. REFRAIN When you drink (Clink-clink) Then I think (Clink-clink) Et cetera . . . ad lib., ad infin. . . PIERIAN HANDSPRINGS LIFE S ASPIRATION A More-than-Symbolic Sonnet for a Fron tispiece of the Same Sort by GEORGE WOLFE PLANK. URGED by the peacocks of our vanity Up the frail tree of Life we climb and grope; About our heads the tragic branches slope, Heavy with Time and xanthic mystery. Beyond, the brooding bird of Fate we see Viewing the world with eyes forever ope . And lured by all the phantom fruits of Hope, We cling in anguish to this fragile tree. O louring skies ! O clouds, that point in scorn With the lean fingers of a wrinkled wrath ! O dedal moon, that rears its ghostly horn ! O secret stars athwart the cosmic path! Shall we attain the glory of the Morn Or sink in some abysmal Aftermath! 107 THE DRAMA OF SUMMER ACT ONE : A rocky stretch of land. DRAMATIS PERSONAE: Two women, Who, hand in hand, upon the sand, Learn of a wisdom they are dim in. About them lies a world of dreams, And, smiling with the summer weather, The younger breathes, " You baste the seams, And tack the plaits and gores together." ACT Two : The actors are the same. THE SCENE: A wood of pines and birches; A wood whose beauties put to shame The cynic soul that doubts and searches. . . The fair one s face blooms like a flower, And, with a sigh intensely utter, She hints, " I let it boil an hour, Then add about a pound of butter. 5 * 108 The Drama of Summer 109 ACT THREE : A line of moonlit hills Enchantment sweeps the singing river; And while a love-sick linnet thrills, They murmur and their voices quiver: " I told her she could pack and go " "You mean that she" " My dear, I m certain She copied all my hats and slow! " " Well, servants will be servants." (CURTAIN) IT WAS FIRST TO FADE AWAY " FOR years I ve gnashed my metaphoric Bicuspids at the rhapsodies When poets praised, in rhyme caloric, Myrtilla, Chloe, Heloise. Unmoved by Moore s or Shelley s rapture, Spite all these songs, I was a dumb one Though I, too, longed and yearned to capture A not ungracious some one. And now oh dream come true I ve seen her; Not in a poem, but a dress; Which, with her classical demeanor, Is something verse cannot express. Her window faces mine, and nightly My far from bashful eyes behold her. . . She has an arm that s not unsightly, A neck and such a shoulder ! no " But It Was First to Fade Away " in And yet when my inamorata Begins to practice Grieg, and when From her medulla oblongata Aida s sorrows sound again, No longer does her beauty blind me For, though she s fair as day a-dawning, My faithful wife comes up behind me, And then lets down the awning. THE SEASON S ROUND, OR FROM COURT TO COURT (A composite of twenty-nine Vers de Societe with none of the approved poetic platitudes omitted. ) BIRDS in the tree ... a flower-decked lea. . . Love shoots his shaft; the dart takes wing. . . A man ... a maiden fancy-free. . . Tis Spring. A beach ... a moon . . . and none too soon The maid with Cupid s last newcomer. . . A balmy night . . . ideal June. . . Tis Summer. 112 The Seasons Round 113 A church ... a bright October night. . . A Wedding March ... a floral hall. . . A ring . . . the maid in dazzling white. . . -Tis Fall. A scene ... a short and hot retort. . . A column in " The Nev/port Printer ". . . A bleak day and a crowded court. . . Tis Winter. INSCRUTABILIA THE POET INDITES: " Who have shunned the languid fountains Where the perfumed pleasures arc? Who have dared to climb the mountains Braved the heights to pluck a star? Who of those who know the dangers Drive their ship across the barf " We have spanned the star-strewn reaches, We have bridged the dread abyss All the ghastly corpse-lined beaches Hold no triumph such as this. We have robbed Time of its terrors; We have answered Death s cold kiss. 9 THE READERS BESEECH I Tell us, poet, tell us truly Of that vague and shrouded land 114 Inscrutabilia 115 Which you write of in your newly- Published poem, gray and grand For the message still eludes us, Tho we seem to understand. THE POET RESPONDS : Would you have your stanzas quoted? Would you win such fame as mine? Know then, verse like this the noted Magazines will not decline; Thoughts like the above are precious Say, at fifty cents a line. HAMMOCK LITERATURE LADY who art strangely versed in Wit and knowledge, You, whose rank was ever first in School and college, Tell me, where can all your saner Thoughts be leading? What to put it even plainer Are you reading? " Dickens, pah, he s almost drivel," Says this censor; " Shaw, he s really too uncivil; As for Spencer, Not a passing thrill of pleasure He ll afford me; Even in an hour of leisure Pater bored me." 116 Hammock Literature 117 Yet that one book o er which for a Week you re frowning; Is it Whitman, Heine, or a Guide to Browning ? "If you must know " (then she walks by, Book before her;) " It is Cosy Kitchen Talks by Mrs. Rorer. " RONDEAU [To, For, and By Request of G. S. K.] You bid me write, and so this string Of aimless rhymes is given wing. These verses, far from recondite, Are neither elegant nor light; They have no beauty, point, nor sting. And yet, somehow, they seem to sing With quite an eerie sort of swing Perhaps it is because tonight You bid me write. Now I could sing of Wagner s " Ring," Of " Shoes " or " Ships " or even " Spring; " Of "Summer s Blessing," " Winter s Blight; " Of "Shakespeare," "Love," or "Souls Contrite " What ? Would I sing of anything You bid me? Right! 1x8 FRUSTRATE [After an Evening with Browning, Mase- field, Lewis Carroll and Gertrude Stein.] I TURNED to the parlor in panic And blurted out, " What must you think? " She rippled, " Then let me the canick in clink!" I soared to my feet; it was still dim. . The moon, like an opal in fright, Leaned over and whispered, " I killed him Last night." Not an hour to lose; I would save her I fastened my spurs in the air With the scent of the twilight I gave her To wear. And I thought, with a shriek, of how Friday Would burst into corduroy pants And I drove like a fiend, and I cried " Day, Advance ! " 119 I2O Pierian Handsprings The wind smacked its lips, " Here s a nice treat." The sea was a forest of flame. . . And so to the billowy Bye Street I came. The stars at my shoulder were baying; I surged through a hole i the gate ; And I knew that the Bishop was saying, " Too late." ****** They tell me that no one believed me; I never was asked to the feast. . . My dears, twas the cabby deceived me The beast! NOCTURNE I CANNOT read, I cannot rest; I only hear the mournful Muse. A wan moon staggers in the West. I cannot read, I cannot rest. Below, a lonely feline pest Makes the night loud with amorous views. I cannot read I cannot rest! I only hear the mournful mews. 121 "An Authentic Original Voice in Literature." The Atlantic Monthly. ROBERT FROST The New American Poet : NORTH OF BOSTON Alice Brown: "Mr. Frost has done truer work about New England than any body except Miss Wilkins." New York Evening Sun: "The poet had the insight to trust the people with the book of the people and the people replied Man, what is your name? ... He forsakes utterly the claptrap of pastoral song, classi cal or modern. . . His is soil stuff, not mock bucolics." Boston Transcript: "The first poet for half a century to express New England life completely with a fresh, original and appealing way of his own." Brooklyn Daily Eagle: "The more you read the more you are held, and when you return a few days later to look up some passage that has followed you about, the better you find the meat under the simple unpretentious form. The London Times caught that quality when it said: Poetry burns up out of it, as when a faint wind breathes upon smouldering embers. . . That is precisely the effect. . ." A BOY S WILL Mr. Frost s First Volume of Poetry The Academy (London): "We have read every line with that amazement and delight which are too seldom evoked by books of modern verse." NORTH OF BOSTON. Cloth. $1.25 net, NORTH OF BOSTON. Leather. $2.00 net. A BOY S WILL. Cloth. 75 cents net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 34 WEST 3 SRD STREET NEW YORK THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE "A collection so complete and distinguished that it is difficult to find any other approaching it sufficiently for comparison." N. Y. Times Book Review. Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSON Collects the best short poetry of the English language- not only the poetry everybody says is good, but also the verses that everybody reads. (374-2 pages / India paper, complete author, title and first line indices.} The most comprehensive and representative collection of American and English poetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from some 1,100 authors. It brings together in one volume the best short poetry of the English language from the time of Spencer, with especial atten tion to American verse. The copyright deadline has been passed, and some three hundred recent authors are included, very few of whom appear in any other general anthology, such as Lionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell, Yeats, Dobson, Lang, Watson, Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne, Van Dyke, Wood- berry, Riley, etc., etc. The poems as arranged by subject, and the classification is unusually close and searching. Some of the most comprehen sive sections are: Children s rhymes (300 pages); love poems (800 pages); nature poetry (400 pages); humorous verse (500 pages) ; patriotic and historical poems (600 pages) ; reflective and descriptive poetry (400 pages). No other collection con tains so many popular favorites and fugitive verses. India Paper Editions Cloth, one volume, $7.50 net. Cloth, two volumes, $10.00 net. Half Morocco, one volume, $12.50 net. Three-quarters Morocco, two volumes, $18.00 net. EIGHT VOLUME EDITION ON REGULAR BOOK PAPER. SOLD IN SETS ONLY. $12.00 NET. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 34 WEST 33 RD STREET NEW YORK UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. DEC 2 1947 * jTWaySS""- = I2JUL 63j Kt_^ >> i_D ll&^ r$\& \3 JUN 2 8 1963 S: vK^ ^1^53^ rt-** fl ^rP UD vb ^v v %4lC"^ ^24199 JAN 2 5 68 -8 F ^W*i RECEIVED ^ N ^ MAY 14 68 -3PM /~AKI ntF PT. JHpQ P LD : EBl3 68-8P <*!* 4 2 ! ^ rf% ^N MAY 14 1968 33311 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY