THE ULTIMATE JOY
| I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet's mystic book And I've lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook; I've felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech. And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day, As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh, That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July. Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness—'twas like a fairy spell, That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well, The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill, Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill. And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer; A generous affability reached up from earth to sky, When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July. In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme, When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream. 'Tis less appreciated, but it's worth a great deal more Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune's shore. How vain is Art's illusion, and how potent Nature's sway When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away! And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly, Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July. Unknown. |
OLD FASHIONED FUN
| When that old joke was new, It was not hard to joke, And puns we now pooh-pooh, Great laughter would provoke. True wit was seldom heard, And humor shown by few, When reign'd King George the Third, And that old joke was new. It passed indeed for wit, Did this achievement rare, When down your friend would sit, To steal away his chair. You brought him to the floor, You bruised him black and blue, And this would cause a roar, When your old joke was new. W. M. Thackeray. |
WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS
| When moonlike ore the hazure seas In soft effulgence swells, When silver jews and balmy breaze Bend down the Lily's bells; When calm and deap, the rosy sleap Has lapt your soal in dreems, R Hangeline! R lady mine! Dost thou remember Jeames? I mark thee in the Marble all, Where England's loveliest shine— I say the fairest of them hall Is Lady Hangeline. My soul, in desolate eclipse, With recollection teems— And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames? Away! I may not tell thee hall This soughring heart endures— There is a lonely sperrit-call That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star, That still above me beams; It is the Star of Hope—but ar! Dost thou remember Jeames? W. M. Thackeray. |
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
| When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. They's something kindo' hearty-like about the atmosphere, When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here— Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetisin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur that no painter has the colorin' to mock— When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!— O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock! James Whitcomb Riley. |
TWO MEN
| There be two men of all mankind That I should like to know about; But search and question where I will, I cannot ever find them out. Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; But who can tell what else he did Must be more learned than I am. Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; But who can tell me who he was— I'll pray the gods to give him joy. There be two men of all mankind That I'm forever thinking on; They chase me everywhere I go— Melchizedek, Ucalegon. Edwin Arlington Robinson. |
A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS
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Yes, write if you want to—there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold. Here's a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool! You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want—not a copper they cost; What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"? Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero; Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lillian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine. There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavour of which we're afraid; There is "lush" is a good one and "swirl" is another; Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made. With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!" Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire. As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty, Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes. Let me show you a picture—'tis far from irrelevant— By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant; The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine. How easy! no
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