Part 4
Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots, Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement! Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage, A lucky few up sitting with the driver, All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.
And by the time the wagons were all empty Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping, Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen. But how we would recall those eager faces, Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them, The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness. Then we would know that arms were made for aching--
I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!
AT A MOVIE THEATRE
How well he spoke who coined the phrase _The picture palace!_ Aye, in sooth A palace, where men's weary days Are crowned with kingliness of youth.
Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim, Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart, We watch a wand of brightness limn The old heroics of the heart.
Romance again hath us in thrall And Love is sweet and always true, And in the darkness of the hall Hands clasp--as they were meant to do.
Remote from peevish joys and ills Our souls, _pro tem_, are purged and free: We see the sun on western hills, The crumbling tumult of the sea.
We are the blond that maidens crave, Well balanced at a dozen banks; By sleight of hand we haste to save A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!
Alas, perhaps our instinct feels Life is not all it might have been, So we applaud fantastic reels Of shadow, cast upon a screen!
SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE
I
Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread, All apprehensive of some hideous sight: Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed, Forgot his gas and let it burn all night-- The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room, She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled, And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom, Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.
No League of Nations scheme can make her gay-- She knows the rank duplicity of man; Some folks expect clean towels every day, They'll get away with murder if they can! She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it) _Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!_
II
Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said: They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines, They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread, They're out all morning, when a body cleans. A man ain't so secretive, never cares What kind of private papers he leaves lay, So I can get a line on his affairs And dope out whether he is likely pay. But women! Say, they surely get my bug! They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum, Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug, And fry marshmallows when their callers come. They always are behindhand with their rents-- Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!
THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)
About these roaring cylinders Where leaping words and paper mate, A sudden glory moves and stirs-- An inky cataract in spate!
What voice for falsehood or for truth, What hearts attentive to be stirred-- How dimly understood, in sooth, The power of the printed word!
These flashing webs and cogs of steel Have shaken empires, routed kings, Yet never turn too fast to feel The tragedies of humble things.
O words, be strict in honesty, Be just and simple and serene; O rhymes, sing true, or you will be Unworthy of this great machine!
DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?
Across the court there rises the back wall Of the Magna Carta Apartments. The other evening the people in the apartment opposite Had forgotten to draw their curtains. I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth, The silver and glass, the crystal water jug, The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands Outstretched in busy gesture.
It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human; So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny. They were four: an elderly couple, A young man, and a girl--with lovely shoulders Mellow in the glow of the lamp. They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.
At last the older two left the room. The boy and girl looked at each other.... Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.
Good old human race that keeps on multiplying! A little later I went down the street to the movies, And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together. And as I watched them I felt like God-- Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.
RAPID TRANSIT
(To Stephen Vincent Benét.)
Climbing is easy and swift on Parnassus! Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop; There found a book of verse by a young poet. Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing! Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting-- Then I ran with him on hills that were windy, Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches, Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights, Watched him disposing his planets in patterns, Tumbling his colors and toys all before him. I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses; Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes. Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood-- Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack, Trying my trinkets with those of his finding-- _And as I left the bookshop_ _My pipe was still warm in my hand._
CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW
Colin, worshipping some frail, By self-deprecation sways her: Calls himself unworthy male, Hardly even fit to praise her.
But this tactic insincere In the upshot greatly grieves him When he finds the lovely dear Quite implicitly believes him.
TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS
_Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses_
If sometimes, in a random phrase (For variation in my ditty), I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise And seem to intimate them pretty--
It is because I do not dare With too unmixed reiteration To sing the browner eyes and hair That are my true intoxication.
Know, then, that I consider brown For ladies' eyes, the only color; And deem all other orbs in town (Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.
I pray, perpend, my dearest dear; While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking, How insubstantial was their cheer-- It was of yours that I was thinking!
PEACE
What is this Peace That statesmen sign? How I have sought To make it mine.
Where groaning cities Clang and glow I hunted, hunted, Peace to know.
And still I saw Where I passed by Discarded hearts,-- Heard children cry.
By willowed waters Brimmed with rain I thought to capture Peace again.
I sat me down My Peace to hoard, But Beauty pricked me With a sword.
For in the stillness Something stirred, And I was crippled For a word.
There is no peace A man can find; The anguish sits His heart behind.
The eyes he loves, The perfect breast, Too exquisite To give him rest.
This is his curse Since brain began. His penalty For being man.
May, 1919
SONG, IN DEPRECATION OF PULCHRITUDE
Beauty (so the poets say), Thou art joy and solace great; Long ago, and far away Thou art safe to contemplate,
Beauty. But when now and here, Visible and close to touch, All too perilously near, Thou tormentest us too much!
In a picture, in a song, In a novel's conjured scenes, Beauty, that's where you belong, Where perspective intervenes.
But, my dear, in rosy fact Your appeal I have to shirk-- You disturb me, and distract My attention from my work!
MOUNTED POLICE
Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse, Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain; He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force," And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.
Inured to every mood of fool and crank, Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons: The rain drips down his horse's shining flank, A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.
O knight commander of our city stress, Little you know how picturesque you are! We hear you cry to drivers who transgress: "_Say, that's a helva place to park your car!_"
TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY
Why did not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan? It would have been delight to me If _natus ante_ 1603.
My stuff would not be soon forgotten If I could write like Harry Wotton.
I wish that I could wield the pen Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.
I would not fear the ticking clock If I were Browne of Tavistock.
For blithe conceits I would not worry If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.
I wish (I hope I am not silly?) That I could juggle words like Lyly.
I envy many a lyric champion, I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.
I creak my rhymes up like a derrick, I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.
My wits are dull as an old Barlow-- I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.
In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney, Or some one else of that same kidney.
For if I were, my lady's looks And all my lyric special pleading Would be in all the future books, And called, at college, _Required Reading_.
THE INTRUDER
As I sat, to sift my dreaming To the meet and needed word, Came a merry Interruption With insistence to be heard.
Smiling stood a maid beside me, Half alluring and half shy; Soft the white hint of her bosom-- Escapade was in her eye.
"I must not be so invaded," (In an anger then I cried)-- "Can't you see that I am busy? Tempting creature, stay outside!
"Pearly rascal, I am writing: I am now composing verse-- Fie on antic invitation: Wanton, vanish--fly--disperse!
"Baggage, in my godlike moment What have I to do with thee?" And she laughed as she departed-- "I am Poetry," said she.
TIT FOR TAT
I often pass a gracious tree Whose name I can't identify, But still I bow, in courtesy It waves a bough, in kind reply.
I do not know your name, O tree (Are you a hemlock or a pine?) But why should that embarrass me? Quite probably you don't know mine.
SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE
I'm glad our house is a little house, Not too tall nor too wide: I'm glad the hovering butterflies Feel free to come inside.
Our little house is a friendly house. It is not shy or vain; It gossips with the talking trees, And makes friends with the rain.
And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green Against our whited walls, And in the phlox, the courteous bees Are paying duty calls.
THE PLUMPUPPETS
When little heads weary have gone to their bed, When all the good nights and the prayers have been said, Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.
_If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,_ _The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;_ _They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat--_ _The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds: They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads; They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight, And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!
No matter what troubles have bothered the day, Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away; Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt-- Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.
_If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat, The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at; They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat-- The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!_
DANDY DANDELION
When Dandy Dandelion wakes And combs his yellow hair, The ant his cup of dewdrop takes And sets his bed to air; The worm hides in a quilt of dirt To keep the thrush away, The beetle dons his pansy shirt-- They know that it is day!
And caterpillars haste to milk The cowslips in the grass; The spider, in his web of silk, Looks out for flies that pass. These humble people leap from bed, They know the night is done: When Dandy spreads his golden head They think he is the sun!
Dear Dandy truly does not smell As sweet as some bouquets; No florist gathers him to sell, He withers in a vase; Yet in the grass he's emperor, And lord of high renown; And grateful little folk adore His bright and shining crown.
THE HIGH CHAIR
Grimly the parent matches wit and will: Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat, _He'd_ drink it. You want to be big and fat Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!) Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose, But you must finish first. Come, drink it up-- (_Splash_!) Oh, you _must_ keep both hands on the cup. All gone? Now for the prunes.... And so it goes.
This is the battlefield that parents know, Where one small splinter of old Adam's rib Withstands an entire household offering spoons. No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
Not long ago I fell in love, But unreturned is my affection-- The girl that I'm enamored of Pays little heed in my direction.
I thought I knew her fairly well: In fact, I'd had my arm around her; And so it's hard to have to tell How unresponsive I have found her.
For, though she is not frankly rude, Her manners quite the wrong way rub me: It seems to me ingratitude To let me love her--and then snub me!
Though I'm considerate and fond, She shows no gladness when she spies me-- She gazes off somewhere beyond And doesn't even recognize me.
Her eyes, so candid, calm and blue, Seem asking if I can support her In the style appropriate to A lady like her father's daughter.
Well, if I can't then no one can-- And let me add that I intend to: She'll never know another man So fit for her to be a friend to.
Not love me, eh? She better had! By Jove, I'll make her love me one day; For, don't you see, I am her Dad, And she'll be three weeks old on Sunday!
AUTUMN COLORS
The chestnut trees turned yellow, The oak like sherry browned, The fir, the stubborn fellow, Stayed green the whole year round.
But O the bonny maple How richly he does shine! He glows against the sunset Like ruddy old port wine.
THE LAST CRICKET
When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills And dead leaves crackle under the feet, When men roll kegs to the cider mills And chestnuts roast on every street;
When the night sky glows like a hollow shell Of lustered emerald and pearl, The kilted cricket knows too well His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.
Quavering under the polished stars In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse The cricket blows a few choked bars, And puts away his pipe--and stops.
TO LOUISE
(A Christmas Baby, Now One Year Old.)
Undaunted by a world of grief You came upon perplexing days, And cynics doubt their disbelief To see the sky-stains in your gaze.
Your sudden and inclusive smile And your emphatic tears, admit That you must find this life worth while, So eagerly you clutch at it!
Your face of triumph says, brave mite, That life is full of love and luck-- Of blankets to kick off at night, And two soft rose-pink thumbs to suck.
O loveliest of pioneers Upon this trail of long surprise, May all the stages of the years Show such enchantment in your eyes!
By parents' patient buttonings, And endless safety pins, you'll grow To ribbons, garters, hooks and things, Up to the Ultimate Trousseau--
But never, in your dainty prime, Will you be more adored by me Than when you see, this Great First Time, Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!
December, 1919.
CHRISTMAS EVE
Our hearts to-night are open wide, The grudge, the grief, are laid aside: The path and porch are swept of snow, The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow-- No visitor can be denied.
All tender human homes must hide Some wistfulness beneath their pride: Compassionate and humble grow Our hearts to-night.
Let empty chair and cup abide! Who knows? Some well-remembered stride May come as once so long ago-- Then welcome, be it friend or foe! There is no anger can divide Our hearts to-night.
EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA
Majestic tomes, you are the tomb Of Aristides Edward Bloom, Who labored, from the world aloof, In reading every page of proof.
From A to And, from Aus to Bis Enthusiasm still was his; From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con His soft-lead pencil still went on.
But reaching volume Fra to Gib, He knew at length that he was sib To Satan; and he sold his soul To reach the section Pay to Pol.
Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub He staggered on, and sought a pub. And just completing Vet to Zym, The motor hearse came round for him.
He perished, obstinately brave: They laid the Index on his grave.
THE MUSIC BOX
At six--long ere the wintry dawn-- There sounded through the silent hall To where I lay, with blankets drawn Above my ears, a plaintive call.
The Urchin, in the eagerness Of three years old, could not refrain; Awake, he straightway yearned to dress And frolic with his clockwork train.
I heard him with a sullen shock. His sister, by her usual plan, Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock-- I vowed to quench the little man.
I leaned above him, somewhat stern, And spoke, I fear, with emphasis-- Ah, how much better, parents learn, To seal one's censure with a kiss!
Again the house was dark and still, Again I lay in slumber's snare, When down the hall I heard a trill, A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air--
His music-box! His best-loved toy, His crib companion every night; And now he turned to it for joy While waiting for the lagging light.
How clear, and how absurdly sad Those tingling pricks of sound unrolled; They chirped and quavered, as the lad His lonely little heart consoled.
_Columbia, the Ocean's Gem_-- (Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint. He cranked the chimes, admiring them In vigil gay, without complaint.
The treble music piped and stirred, The leaping air that was his bliss; And, as I most contritely heard, I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!
The needled jets of melody Rang slowlier and died away-- The Urchin slept; and it was I Who lay and waited for the day.
TO LUATH
(_Robert Burns's Dog_)
_"Darling Jean" was Jean Armour, a "comely country lass" whom Burns met at a penny wedding at Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the same quadrille when the poet's dog sprang to his master and almost upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked that he wished he could get any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
Some days afterward, Jean, seeing him pass as she was bleaching clothes on the village green, called to him and asked him if he had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.
That was the beginning of an acquaintance that coloured all of Burns's life._
--NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
Well, Luath, man, when you came prancing All glee to see your Robin dancing, His partner's muslin gown mischancing You leaped for joy! And little guessed what sweet romancing You caused, my boy!
With happy bark, that moment jolly, You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie; His other dog, old melancholy, Was put to flight-- But what a tale of grief and folly You wagged that night!
Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny master Whose lyric pulse beat ever faster Each time he saw a lass and passed her His breast went bang! In many a woful heart's disaster He felt the pang!
Poor Robin's heart, forever burning, Forever roving, ranting, yearning, From you that heart might have been learning To be less fickle! Might have been spared so many a turning And grievous prickle!
Your collie heart held but one notion-- When Robbie jigged in sprightly motion You ran to show your own devotion And gambolled too, And so that tempest on love's ocean Was due to you!
Well, it is ower late for preaching And hearts are aye too hot for teaching! When Robin with his eye beseeching By greenside came, Jeanie--poor lass--forgot her bleaching And yours the blame!
THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND
I had a friend whose path was pain-- Oppressed by all the cares of earth Life gave him little chance to drain His secret cisterns of rich mirth.
His work was hasty, harassed, vexed: His dreams were laid aside, perforce, Until--in this world, or the next.... (His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)
What funded wealth of tenderness, What ingots of the heart and mind He must uneasily repress Beneath the rasping daily grind.
But now and then, and with my aid, For fear his soul be wholly lost, His devoir to the grape he paid To call soul back, at any cost!
Then, liberate from discipline, Undrugged by caution and control, Through all his veins came flooding in The virtued passion of his soul!
His spirit bared, and felt no shame: With holy light his eyes would shine-- See Truth her acolyte reclaim After the second glass of wine!
The self that life had trodden hard Aspired, was generous and free: The glowing heart that care had charred Grew flame, as it was meant to be.
A pox upon the canting lot Who call the glass the Devil's shape-- A greater pox where'er some sot Defiles the honor of the grape.
Then look with reverence on wine That kindles human brains uncouth-- There must be something part divine In aught that brings us nearer Truth!
So--continently skull your fumes (Here let our little sermon end) And bless this X-ray that illumes The secret bosom of your friend!
A SYMPOSIUM
There was a Russian novelist Whose name was Solugubrious, The reading circles took him up, (They'd heard he was salubrious.)
The women's club of Cripple Creek Soon held a kind of seminar To learn just what his message was-- You know what bookworms women are.
The tea went round. After five cups (You should have seen them bury tea) Dear Mrs. Brown said what she liked Was the great man's _sincerity_.
Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she was From all besetting vanity) Declared that she loved even more His broad and deep _humanity_.
Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimed All thought of being critical, Protested that she found his work A wee bit _analytical_.
But Mrs. Black, the President, Of wisdom found the pinnacle: She said, "Dear me, I always think Those Russians are so _cynical_."
Well, poor old Solugubrious, It's true that they had heard of him; But neither Brown, Jones, Smith, nor Black Had ever read a word of him!
TO A TELEPHONE OPERATOR WHO HAS A BAD COLD
How hoarse and husky in my ear Your usually cheerful chirrup: You have an awful cold, my dear-- Try aspirin or bronchial syrup.
When I put in a call to-day Compassion stirred my humane blood red To hear you faintly, sadly, say The number: _Burray Hill dide hudred!_