Part 5
I felt (I say) quick sympathy To hear you croak in the receiver-- Will you be sorry too for me A month hence, when I have hay fever?
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
(Dedicated to Don Marquis.)
I
Scuttle, scuttle, little roach-- How you run when I approach: Up above the pantry shelf. Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin, How I wish I could determine How you spend your hours of ease, Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark-- Then the kitchen is your park: In the garbage heap that she leaves Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect All the places you have trekked: Does your long antenna whisk its Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul, Drowsing in our sugar bowl? Or, abandonment most utter, Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes Swimming in the baby's prunes? Then, when dawn comes, do you slink Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy? We are brothers, thou and I. In the midnight, like yourself, I explore the pantry shelf!
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
II
Rockabye, insect, lie low in thy den, Father's a cockroach, mother's a hen. And Betty, the maid, doesn't clean up the sink, So you shall have plenty to eat and to drink.
Hushabye, insect, behind the mince pies: If the cook sees you her anger will rise; She'll scatter poison, as bitter as gall, Death to poor cockroach, hen, baby and all.
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
III
There was a gay henroach, and what do you think, She lived in a cranny behind the old sink-- Eggshells and grease were the chief of her diet; She went for a stroll when the kitchen was quiet.
She walked in the pantry and sampled the bread, But when she came back her old husband was dead: Long had he lived, for his legs they were fast, But the kitchen maid caught him and squashed him at last.
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
IV
I knew a black beetle, who lived down a drain, And friendly he was though his manners were plain; When I took a bath he would come up the pipe, And together we'd wash and together we'd wipe.
Though mother would sometimes protest with a sneer That my choice of a tub-mate was wanton and queer, A nicer companion I never have seen: He bathed every night, so he must have been clean.
Whenever he heard the tap splash in the tub He'd dash up the drain-pipe and wait for a scrub, And often, so fond of ablution was he, I'd find him there floating and waiting for me.
But nurse has done something that seems a great shame: She saw him there, waiting, prepared for a game: She turned on the hot and she scalded him sore And he'll never come bathing with me any more.
THE TWINS
Con was a thorn to brother Pro-- On Pro we often sicked him: Whatever Pro would claim to know Old Con would contradict him!
A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL
(_Extremely technical_)
I'd like to have you meet my wife! I simply cannot keep from hinting I've never seen, in all my life, So fine a specimen of printing.
Her type is not some =bold-face= font, Set solid. Nay! And I will say out That no typographer could want To see a better balanced layout.
A nice proportion of white space There is for brown eyes to look large in, And not a feature in her face Comes anywhere too near the margin.
Locked up with all her sweet display Her form will never pi. She's like a Corrected proof marked _stet, O. K._-- And yet she loves me, fatface =Pica!=
She has a fine one-column head, And like a comma curves each eyebrow-- Her forehead has an extra lead Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.
Her nose, _italicized brevier_, Too lovely to describe by penpoint; Her mouth is set in _pearl_: her ear And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.
Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis) Make my pulse beat 14-em measure, And such typography as this Would make =De Vinne= scream with pleasure.
And so, of all typefounder chaps Her father's best, in my opinion; She is my NONPAREIL (IN CAPS) And I (in lower case) her _minion_.
I hope you will not stand aloof Because my metaphors are shoppy; Of her devotion I've a proof-- I tell the urchin, _Follow Copy_!
THE POET ON THE HEARTH
When fire is kindled on the dogs, But still the stubborn oak delays, Small embers laid above the logs Will draw them into sudden blaze.
Just so the minor poet's part: (A greater he need not desire) The charcoals of his burning heart May light some Master into fire!
O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY
O praise me not the country-- The meadows green and cool, The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool! The city for my craving, Her lordship and her slaving, The hot stones of her paving For me, a city fool!
O praise me not the leisure Of gardened country seats, The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats-- The city for my yearning, My spending and my earning. Her winding ways for learning, Sing hey! the city streets!
O praise me not the country, Her sycamores and bees, I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees! The city for my wooing, My dreaming and my doing; Her beauty for pursuing, Her deathless mysteries.
O praise me not the country, Her evenings full of stars, Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars-- The city for my wonder, Her glory and her blunder, And O the haunting thunder Of the Elevated cars!
A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD
(New York)
_Here Lyes the Body of_ _Iohn Jones the Son of_ _Iohn Jones Who Departed_ _This Life December the 13_ _1768 Aged 4 Years & 4 Months & 2 Days_
Here, where enormous shadows creep, He casts his childish shadow too: How small he seems, beneath the steep Great walls; his tender days, so few, Lovingly numbered, every one-- John Jones, John Jones's little son.
O sunlight on the Lightning's wings! Yet though our buildings skyward climb Our heartbreaks are but little things In the equality of Time. The sum of life, for all men's stones: He was John Jones, son of John Jones.
THE MADONNA OF THE CURB
On the curb of a city pavement, By the ash and garbage cans, In the stench and rolling thunder Of motor trucks and vans, There sits my little lady, With brave but troubled eyes, And in her arms a baby That cries and cries and cries.
She cannot be more than seven; But years go fast in the slums, And hard on the pains of winter The pitiless summer comes. The wail of sickly children She knows; she understands The pangs of puny bodies, The clutch of small hot hands.
In the deadly blaze of August, That turns men faint and mad, She quiets the peevish urchins
By telling a dream she had-- A heaven with marble counters, And ice, and a singing fan; And a God in white, so friendly, Just like the drug-store man.
Her ragged dress is dearer Than the perfect robe of a queen! Poor little lass, who knows not The blessing of being clean. And when you are giving millions To Belgian, Pole and Serb, Remember my pitiful lady-- Madonna of the Curb!
THE ISLAND
_A song for England?_ _Nay, what is a song for England?_
Our hearts go by green-cliffed Kinsale Among the gulls' white wings, Or where, on Kentish forelands pale The lighthouse beacon swings: Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide, Come in on Suffolk foam-- The blood that will not be denied Moves fast, and calls us home!
Our hearts now walk a secret round On many a Cotswold hill, For we are mixed of island ground, The island draws us still: Our hearts may pace a windy turn Where Sussex downs are high, Or watch the lights of London burn, A bonfire in the sky!
What is the virtue of that soil That flings her strength so wide? Her ancient courage, patient toil, Her stubborn wordless pride? A little land, yet loved therein As any land may be, Rejoicing in her discipline, The salt stress of the sea.
Our hearts shall walk a Sherwood track, Our lips taste English rain, We thrill to see the Union Jack Across some deep-sea lane; Though all the world be of rich cost And marvellous with worth, Yet if that island ground were lost How empty were the earth!
_A song for England?_ _Lo, every word we speak's a song for England._
SUNDAY NIGHT
Two grave brown eyes, severely bent Upon a memorandum book-- A sparkling face, on which are blent A hopeful and a pensive look; A pencil, purse, and book of checks With stubs for varying amounts-- Elaine, the shrewdest of her sex, Is busy balancing accounts.
Sedately, in the big armchair, She, all engrossed, the audit scans-- Her pencil hovers here and there The while she calculates and plans; What's this? A faintly pensive frown Upon her forehead gathers now-- Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown-- Beget that shadow on her brow?
A murrain on the tradesman churl Who caused this fair accountant's gloom! Just then--a baby's cry--my girl Arose and swiftly left the room. Then in her purse by stratagem I thrust some bills of small amounts-- She'll think she had forgotten them, And smile again at her accounts!
ENGLAND, JULY 1913
To Rupert Brooke
O England, England ... that July How placidly the days went by!
Two years ago (how long it seems) In that dear England of my dreams I loved and smoked and laughed amain And rode to Cambridge in the rain. A careless godlike life was there! To spin the roads with _Shotover_, To dream while punting on the Cam, To lie, and never give a damn For anything but comradeship And books to read and ale to sip, And shandygaff at every inn When _The Gorilla_ rode to Lynn! O world of wheel and pipe and oar In those old days before the War.
O poignant echoes of that time! I hear the Oxford towers chime, The throbbing of those mellow bells And all the sweet old English smells--
The Deben water, quick with salt, The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt; The Suffolk villages, serene With lads at cricket on the green, And Wytham strawberries, so ripe, And _Murray's Mixture_ in my pipe!
In those dear days, in those dear days, All pleasant lay the country ways; The echoes of our stalwart mirth Went echoing wide around the earth And in an endless bliss of sun We lay and watched the river run. And you by Cam and I by Isis Were happy with our own devices.
Ah, can we ever know again Such friends as were those chosen men, Such men to drink, to bike, to smoke with, To worship with, or lie and joke with? Never again, my lads, we'll see The life we led at twenty-three. Never again, perhaps, shall I Go flashing bravely down the High To see, in that transcendent hour, The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.
Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall Those endless afternoons, and all Your Cambridge--which I loved as one Who was her grandson, not her son. O ripples where the river slacks In greening eddies round the "backs"; Where men have dreamed such gallant things Under the old stone bridge at _King's_. Or leaned to feed the silver swans By the tennis meads at _John's_. O Granta's water, cold and fresh, Kissing the warm and eager flesh Under the willow's breathing stir-- The bathing pool at _Grantchester_.... What words can tell, what words can praise The burly savor of those days!
Dear singing lad, those days are dead And gone for aye your golden head; And many other well-loved men Will never dine in Hall again. I too have lived remembered hours In Cambridge; heard the summer showers Make music on old _Heffer's_ pane While I was reading Pepys or Taine. Through _Trumpington_ and _Grantchester_
I used to roll on _Shotover_; At _Hauxton Bridge_ my lamp would light And sleep in _Royston_ for the night. Or to _Five Miles from Anywhere_ I used to scull; and sit and swear While wasps attacked my bread and jam Those summer evenings on the Cam. (O crispy English cottage-loaves Baked in ovens, not in stoves! O white unsalted English butter O satisfaction none can utter!)...
To think that while those joys I knew In Cambridge, I did not know you.
July, 1915.
CASUALTY
A well-sharp'd pencil leads one on to write: When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed; The primed occasion puts the deed in sight: Who steals a book who knows not how to read?
Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep? A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife? Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.
A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL
O noble gracious English tongue Whose fibers we so sadly twist, For caitiff measures he has sung Have pardon on the journalist.
For mumbled meter, leaden pun, For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word, Have pity on this graceless one-- Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord!
The metaphors and tropes depart, Our little clippings fade and bleach: There is no virtue and no art Save in straightforward Saxon speech.
Yet not in ignorance or spite, Nor with Thy noble past forgot We sinned: indeed we had to write To keep a fire beneath the pot.
Then grant that in the coming time, With inky hand and polished sleeve, In lucid prose or honest rhyme Some worthy task we may achieve--
Some pinnacled and marbled phrase, Some lyric, breaking like the sea, That we may learn, not hoping praise, The gift of Thy simplicity.
PRELIMINARY INSTRUCTIONS FOR A FUNERAL SERVICE: BEING A POEM IN FOUR STANZAS
Say this poor fool misfeatured all his days, And could not mend his ways; And say he trod Most heavily upon the corns of God.
But also say that in his clabbered brain There was the essential pain-- The idiot's vow To tell his troubled Truth, no matter how.
Unhappy fool, you say, with pitiful air: Who was he, then, and where? Ah, you divine He lives in your heart, as he lives in mine.