(Creeping mysteriously out of the twilight, draped in a complex.)
Forslin murmurs a melodious improprietyMusing on birds and women dead æons ago....Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society?Can any one tell?... After an evening out, who can know?Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings,Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of TroyFound him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones....Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * *I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree;... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird?What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin?
Forslin murmurs a melodious improprietyMusing on birds and women dead æons ago....Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society?Can any one tell?... After an evening out, who can know?Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings,Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of TroyFound him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones....Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * *
Forslin murmurs a melodious impropriety
Musing on birds and women dead æons ago....
Was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society?
Can any one tell?... After an evening out, who can know?
Perhaps Cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings,
Lifted him once to her tatbebs.... Perhaps Helen of Troy
Found him more live than her Paris ... a bird among dead ones....
Perhaps Semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * *
I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree;... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird?What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin?
I tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree;
... What is a pear-tree, after all.... What is a bird?
What is a shoe, or a Forslin, or even a Senlin?
(caricature of Conrad Aiken)
What is ... a what?... Is there any one who has heard?...What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness,Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat?I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot,There is so much more genuine poetry in that....
What is ... a what?... Is there any one who has heard?...What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness,Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat?I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot,There is so much more genuine poetry in that....
What is ... a what?... Is there any one who has heard?...
What is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, Freudian darkness,
Amorous, catlike ... Ah, can it be a cat?
I would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot,
There is so much more genuine poetry in that....
(Note by the Collator: It was, in fact, Fluffums, the Angora cat belonging to the Jenkinses on the corner; and the disappointment was too much for Mr. Aiken, who fainted away, and had to be taken back to Boston before completing his poem, which he had intended to fill an entire book.)
(Impetuously, with a floppy hat.)
When one is young, you know, then one can singOf anything:One is so young—so pleasurably so—How can one knowIf God made little apples, or yet pears,Or ... if God cares?You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is whyI want to crySeeing you watch the poems that I sayTo-night, to-day ...This little boy-bird seems to nod to meWith sympathy:He is so young: it must be that is why ...As young as I!
When one is young, you know, then one can singOf anything:One is so young—so pleasurably so—How can one knowIf God made little apples, or yet pears,Or ... if God cares?
When one is young, you know, then one can sing
Of anything:
One is so young—so pleasurably so—
How can one know
If God made little apples, or yet pears,
Or ... if God cares?
You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is whyI want to crySeeing you watch the poems that I sayTo-night, to-day ...
You are young, maybe, Grackle; that is why
I want to cry
Seeing you watch the poems that I say
To-night, to-day ...
This little boy-bird seems to nod to meWith sympathy:He is so young: it must be that is why ...As young as I!
This little boy-bird seems to nod to me
With sympathy:
He is so young: it must be that is why ...
As young as I!
(Advancing with sedate courtesy in a long-sleeved, high-necked lecture costume.)
I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it,I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky:This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet:Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate and I!My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild climbing(They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they always kept on their clothes)My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured rhyming:He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those!My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation:I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free—Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation,My soul shall be stripped and buttonless—it shall dwell in a naked tree!
I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it,I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky:This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet:Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate and I!
I will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it,
I will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky:
This bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet:
Until he is stripped of his last pin-plume I will sing of my mate and I!
My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild climbing(They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they always kept on their clothes)My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured rhyming:He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those!
My ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild climbing
(They were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they always kept on their clothes)
My mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured rhyming:
He chants "Come Down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those!
My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation:I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free—Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation,My soul shall be stripped and buttonless—it shall dwell in a naked tree!
My ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation:
I must tell the world of their wonders, but I must be strong and free—
Though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation,
My soul shall be stripped and buttonless—it shall dwell in a naked tree!
(With a certain aloofness.)
Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree,His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him....Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree;Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim."Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion,"I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?"Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion?But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem.
Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree,His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him....Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree;Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim.
Kenton's arrogant eyes watch the Widdemer pear-tree,
His thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him....
Kenton, what do you see? That yonder is only a bare tree;
Come, carry Deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim.
"Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion,"I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?"Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion?But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem.
"Aw, mother, but I don't want to!" Kenton replies with devotion,
"I've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?"
Ah, Kenton, Kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion?
But in spite of it I admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem.
(They sing arm in arm, Stephen Vincent having rather more to do with the verse and William Rose with the chorus. Their sister Laura is too busy looking for a fairy under the tree to add to the family contribution.)
It was old Yale CollegeMade me what I am—You oughto heard my motherWhen I first said damn!I put a pin in sister's chair,She jumped sky-high ...I don't know what'll happenWhen I come to die!But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were piled like seas,Nœara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants charged up trees!
It was old Yale CollegeMade me what I am—You oughto heard my motherWhen I first said damn!I put a pin in sister's chair,She jumped sky-high ...I don't know what'll happenWhen I come to die!
It was old Yale College
Made me what I am—
You oughto heard my mother
When I first said damn!
I put a pin in sister's chair,
She jumped sky-high ...
I don't know what'll happen
When I come to die!
But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were piled like seas,Nœara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants charged up trees!
But oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,
There was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were piled like seas,
Nœara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,
And the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants charged up trees!
(caricature of the Benet brothers)
Forceps in the dentist's chair,Razors in the lather ...Lord, the black experienceI've had time to gather ...But I've thought of one thingThat may pull me through—I'm a reg'lar devilBut the Devil was, too!There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in a league-long rapture,Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row—It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his capture....But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!
Forceps in the dentist's chair,Razors in the lather ...Lord, the black experienceI've had time to gather ...But I've thought of one thingThat may pull me through—I'm a reg'lar devilBut the Devil was, too!
Forceps in the dentist's chair,
Razors in the lather ...
Lord, the black experience
I've had time to gather ...
But I've thought of one thing
That may pull me through—
I'm a reg'lar devil
But the Devil was, too!
There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in a league-long rapture,Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row—It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his capture....But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!
There were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in a league-long rapture,
Birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row—
It was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his capture....
But God! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the Faculty did not know!
(Who apparently did not care for the suburbs.)
I preen myself....I ...Always do ...My ego expanding encompasses ...Everything, naturally....This bird preens himself ...It is our only likeness....Ah, God, I want a GhettoAnd a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ...God, you knowHow awful it is....Here are trees and birds and cloudsAnd picturesquely neat children across the way on the grassNot doing anythingImproper ...(Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for thatPerhaps they neverKnew How....)
I preen myself....I ...Always do ...My ego expanding encompasses ...Everything, naturally....
I preen myself....
I ...
Always do ...
My ego expanding encompasses ...
Everything, naturally....
This bird preens himself ...It is our only likeness....
This bird preens himself ...
It is our only likeness....
Ah, God, I want a GhettoAnd a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ...God, you knowHow awful it is....Here are trees and birds and cloudsAnd picturesquely neat children across the way on the grassNot doing anythingImproper ...(Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for thatPerhaps they neverKnew How....)
Ah, God, I want a Ghetto
And a Freud and an alley and some Immigrants calling names ...
God, you know
How awful it is....
Here are trees and birds and clouds
And picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass
Not doing anything
Improper ...
(Poor little fools, I mustn't blame them for that
Perhaps they never
Knew How....)
(caricature of Lola Ridge)
But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line!This is a country landscape—I can't stand it!God, take me away—There is no Sex hereAnd no Smell!
But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line!This is a country landscape—I can't stand it!
But oh, God, take me to the nearest trolley line!
This is a country landscape—
I can't stand it!
God, take me away—There is no Sex hereAnd no Smell!
God, take me away—
There is no Sex here
And no Smell!
(Recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she notices that the Grackle has hopped twice.)
O I have brought in nowBergamot,A packet o' brown sennaAnd an iron pot;In my scarlet gownI make all hot.And other men and girlsWrite like meSetting herbs a-plentyIn their poetry(Bergamot for hair-oil,Bergamot for tea!)And they may do ill nowOr they may do well,(Little should I care nowWhat they have to sell—)But what bergamot and rue areNone of them can tell.
O I have brought in nowBergamot,A packet o' brown sennaAnd an iron pot;In my scarlet gownI make all hot.
O I have brought in now
Bergamot,
A packet o' brown senna
And an iron pot;
In my scarlet gown
I make all hot.
And other men and girlsWrite like meSetting herbs a-plentyIn their poetry(Bergamot for hair-oil,Bergamot for tea!)
And other men and girls
Write like me
Setting herbs a-plenty
In their poetry
(Bergamot for hair-oil,
Bergamot for tea!)
And they may do ill nowOr they may do well,(Little should I care nowWhat they have to sell—)But what bergamot and rue areNone of them can tell.
And they may do ill now
Or they may do well,
(Little should I care now
What they have to sell—)
But what bergamot and rue are
None of them can tell.
(caricature of Edna St. Vincent Millay)
All above my bitter teaI have set a lid(As my bitter heartBy its red gown hid)They write of bergamotBecause I did....(From its padded hangersThey've snatched my red gown,Men as well as girlsAnd gone down town,Flaunting my vocabulary,Every verb and noun!)And the grackle moansHigh above the pot,He is sick with herbs ...And am I not,Who have brought inBergamot?
All above my bitter teaI have set a lid(As my bitter heartBy its red gown hid)They write of bergamotBecause I did....
All above my bitter tea
I have set a lid
(As my bitter heart
By its red gown hid)
They write of bergamot
Because I did....
(From its padded hangersThey've snatched my red gown,Men as well as girlsAnd gone down town,Flaunting my vocabulary,Every verb and noun!)
(From its padded hangers
They've snatched my red gown,
Men as well as girls
And gone down town,
Flaunting my vocabulary,
Every verb and noun!)
And the grackle moansHigh above the pot,He is sick with herbs ...And am I not,Who have brought inBergamot?
And the grackle moans
High above the pot,
He is sick with herbs ...
And am I not,
Who have brought in
Bergamot?
(With a strong note of infant brutality.)
Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the treeAll green an' cocky—why, it might be meSingin' to you.... Wisht I was just a birdBringin' you worms—aw, you know, things I've heard'Bout me—an' flowers, maybe.... Like as notSomebody'd get me with an old slingshotAn' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up!Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet,Knowin' my grave was out there in the wetAnd we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid,It makes me weep, same as it always did,To think how bad you'd feel....I got a thought,An awful funny one I sorta caught—Nobody never thought that way, I guess—When I get blue, an' things is in a messI map out all my funeral, the hearsesAn' nineteen carriages, an' folks with versesSayin' how great I was, an' all like that,An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hatTellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke,An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak....I can't stand that bird, somehow—makes me cry....The world'll be darn sorry when I die!
Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the treeAll green an' cocky—why, it might be meSingin' to you.... Wisht I was just a birdBringin' you worms—aw, you know, things I've heard'Bout me—an' flowers, maybe.... Like as notSomebody'd get me with an old slingshotAn' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up!Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet,Knowin' my grave was out there in the wetAnd we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid,It makes me weep, same as it always did,To think how bad you'd feel....
Gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree
All green an' cocky—why, it might be me
Singin' to you.... Wisht I was just a bird
Bringin' you worms—aw, you know, things I've heard
'Bout me—an' flowers, maybe.... Like as not
Somebody'd get me with an old slingshot
An' I'd be dead.... Gee, it'd break you up!
Nothin' would be the same to you, I bet,
Knowin' my grave was out there in the wet
And we two couldn't pet no more.... Say, kid,
It makes me weep, same as it always did,
To think how bad you'd feel....
I got a thought,An awful funny one I sorta caught—Nobody never thought that way, I guess—When I get blue, an' things is in a messI map out all my funeral, the hearsesAn' nineteen carriages, an' folks with versesSayin' how great I was, an' all like that,An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hatTellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke,An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak....
I got a thought,
An awful funny one I sorta caught—
Nobody never thought that way, I guess—
When I get blue, an' things is in a mess
I map out all my funeral, the hearses
An' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses
Sayin' how great I was, an' all like that,
An' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat
Tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke,
An' you, just smashed to think I had to croak....
I can't stand that bird, somehow—makes me cry....The world'll be darn sorry when I die!
I can't stand that bird, somehow—makes me cry....
The world'll be darn sorry when I die!
(Who, being very polite, only thought it.)
There is no magic in a living tree,And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds:My soul is seasick, and its only wordsMurmur desire for things more like a sea.In this dry landscape here there seems to beNo water, merely persons in large herds,Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds,Come from the Poetry Society.What could be drier, where all things are dry?What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide?Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie,Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships,Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside,That I may have great sonnets on my lips!
There is no magic in a living tree,And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds:My soul is seasick, and its only wordsMurmur desire for things more like a sea.In this dry landscape here there seems to beNo water, merely persons in large herds,Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds,Come from the Poetry Society.
There is no magic in a living tree,
And, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds:
My soul is seasick, and its only words
Murmur desire for things more like a sea.
In this dry landscape here there seems to be
No water, merely persons in large herds,
Who, by their long remarks, their arid girds,
Come from the Poetry Society.
What could be drier, where all things are dry?What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide?Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie,Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships,Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside,That I may have great sonnets on my lips!
What could be drier, where all things are dry?
What boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide?
Oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie,
Hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships,
Send them to sea with these folk nailed inside,
That I may have great sonnets on my lips!
(With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.)
Never believe this bird connotesJade whorls of carven commonness:Nor as from ordinary throatsSlides his sharp song in ice-strung stress.He is the cold and scornful Loon,Who, hoping that the sun shall fail,Steeps in the silver of the moonHis burnished claws, his chiseled tail.
Never believe this bird connotesJade whorls of carven commonness:Nor as from ordinary throatsSlides his sharp song in ice-strung stress.
Never believe this bird connotes
Jade whorls of carven commonness:
Nor as from ordinary throats
Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress.
He is the cold and scornful Loon,Who, hoping that the sun shall fail,Steeps in the silver of the moonHis burnished claws, his chiseled tail.
He is the cold and scornful Loon,
Who, hoping that the sun shall fail,
Steeps in the silver of the moon
His burnished claws, his chiseled tail.
(Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.)
Beloved....I cannot bear that BirdHe is greenWith envy of My Songs:"Cheep! Cheep!"This TreeHas a furtive lookAnd the BrookSays, "Oh ... Splash...."And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ...It waves at me....It is too flirtatious!Beloved,Let us leave swiftly ...I fear this Landscape!It would vamp me!
Beloved....I cannot bear that Bird
Beloved....
I cannot bear that Bird
He is greenWith envy of My Songs:"Cheep! Cheep!"
He is green
With envy of My Songs:
"Cheep! Cheep!"
This TreeHas a furtive lookAnd the BrookSays, "Oh ... Splash...."
This Tree
Has a furtive look
And the Brook
Says, "Oh ... Splash...."
And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ...It waves at me....It is too flirtatious!
And the Grass ... the terrible Grass ...
It waves at me....
It is too flirtatious!
Beloved,Let us leave swiftly ...
Beloved,
Let us leave swiftly ...
I fear this Landscape!It would vamp me!
I fear this Landscape!
It would vamp me!
(caricature of Leonora Speyer)
(Who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this handsome tribute by wire.)
I sing of the joy of the Small PathsThe paths that lead nowhere at all,(Though I never have gone on them neverthelessThey are admirable, and so small!)I go out at midnight in motorsBut, being a Roosevelt, I driveStraight ahead on the neatly paved highway,For I wish with much speed to arrive.Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small PathsSurrounded with Birds and with TreesI would love to go down on a Small PathAnd sit in communion with these!Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you,For poetic communion I yearnBut I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbsAnd alas, I've no time to return.Oh alas, the undone moments,Oh, the myriad hours bereftTrying to be twenty peopleAnd to do things right and left.I would sit down by a Small PathAnd would make me a Large RhymeI should love to find my soul thereBut I haven't got the time!
I sing of the joy of the Small PathsThe paths that lead nowhere at all,(Though I never have gone on them neverthelessThey are admirable, and so small!)I go out at midnight in motorsBut, being a Roosevelt, I driveStraight ahead on the neatly paved highway,For I wish with much speed to arrive.
I sing of the joy of the Small Paths
The paths that lead nowhere at all,
(Though I never have gone on them nevertheless
They are admirable, and so small!)
I go out at midnight in motors
But, being a Roosevelt, I drive
Straight ahead on the neatly paved highway,
For I wish with much speed to arrive.
Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small PathsSurrounded with Birds and with TreesI would love to go down on a Small PathAnd sit in communion with these!Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you,For poetic communion I yearnBut I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbsAnd alas, I've no time to return.
Oh, the joy and effulgence of Small Paths
Surrounded with Birds and with Trees
I would love to go down on a Small Path
And sit in communion with these!
Oh, Grackle, I yearn to be with you,
For poetic communion I yearn
But I have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs
And alas, I've no time to return.
Oh alas, the undone moments,Oh, the myriad hours bereftTrying to be twenty peopleAnd to do things right and left.I would sit down by a Small PathAnd would make me a Large RhymeI should love to find my soul thereBut I haven't got the time!
Oh alas, the undone moments,
Oh, the myriad hours bereft
Trying to be twenty people
And to do things right and left.
I would sit down by a Small Path
And would make me a Large Rhyme
I should love to find my soul there
But I haven't got the time!
(Who felt that the Bird did not sufficiently uphold Art.)
Grackle, Grackle on your tree,There's something wrong to-day,In the moonlight, in the quiet evening,You will rise and croak and fly away;Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight(And that's all right)But you have never criticised a single song(And that's all wrong)Lo, would you add despair unto despair?Do you not careThat all these lesser children of the MuseShall sing to you exactly as they choose?You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem,Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'emThat you should notBe shot:What saw I then, what heard?Multitudes—multitudes, under the tree they stirred,And with too many a broken note and wheezeThey sang what each did please....And Thou,O bird of emeraldine beak and brow,Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle,Grackle!
Grackle, Grackle on your tree,There's something wrong to-day,In the moonlight, in the quiet evening,You will rise and croak and fly away;Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight(And that's all right)But you have never criticised a single song(And that's all wrong)Lo, would you add despair unto despair?Do you not careThat all these lesser children of the MuseShall sing to you exactly as they choose?
Grackle, Grackle on your tree,
There's something wrong to-day,
In the moonlight, in the quiet evening,
You will rise and croak and fly away;
Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight
(And that's all right)
But you have never criticised a single song
(And that's all wrong)
Lo, would you add despair unto despair?
Do you not care
That all these lesser children of the Muse
Shall sing to you exactly as they choose?
You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem,Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'emThat you should notBe shot:What saw I then, what heard?Multitudes—multitudes, under the tree they stirred,And with too many a broken note and wheezeThey sang what each did please....
You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem,
Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em
That you should not
Be shot:
What saw I then, what heard?
Multitudes—multitudes, under the tree they stirred,
And with too many a broken note and wheeze
They sang what each did please....
And Thou,O bird of emeraldine beak and brow,Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle,Grackle!
And Thou,
O bird of emeraldine beak and brow,
Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle,
Grackle!
(Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle either.)
(A Song of the Grating Outdoors)
Bird, thou art not a Veery,Nor yet a Yellowthroat,Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song,Long, long e'er I could vote;Thou art not a Blue Flower,Nor e'en a real Blue Bird;Yet there's a moral high and pureIn all thy likings heard:"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"The noble tow'rs of PrincetonHear high thy pensive trill,And eke my ear has heard theeThe while I fished the rill;Thy note rings out at daybreakBefore I rise to toil;Thou counselest Persistence;Thy song no stone can spoil;"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"Yet, Bird, there is a limitTo all I've undergone;From five o'clock till five o'clockThou'st chanted o'er my lawn;I cannot get my work done ...I give thee, Bird, advice;If thou wouldst save thy skin alive,Let me not warn thee twice,"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"
Bird, thou art not a Veery,Nor yet a Yellowthroat,Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song,Long, long e'er I could vote;Thou art not a Blue Flower,Nor e'en a real Blue Bird;Yet there's a moral high and pureIn all thy likings heard:"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"
Bird, thou art not a Veery,
Nor yet a Yellowthroat,
Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song,
Long, long e'er I could vote;
Thou art not a Blue Flower,
Nor e'en a real Blue Bird;
Yet there's a moral high and pure
In all thy likings heard:
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—
Go on and ne'er look back!"
The noble tow'rs of PrincetonHear high thy pensive trill,And eke my ear has heard theeThe while I fished the rill;Thy note rings out at daybreakBefore I rise to toil;Thou counselest Persistence;Thy song no stone can spoil;"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"
The noble tow'rs of Princeton
Hear high thy pensive trill,
And eke my ear has heard thee
The while I fished the rill;
Thy note rings out at daybreak
Before I rise to toil;
Thou counselest Persistence;
Thy song no stone can spoil;
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—
Go on and ne'er look back!"
Yet, Bird, there is a limitTo all I've undergone;From five o'clock till five o'clockThou'st chanted o'er my lawn;I cannot get my work done ...I give thee, Bird, advice;If thou wouldst save thy skin alive,Let me not warn thee twice,"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—Go on and ne'er look back!"
Yet, Bird, there is a limit
To all I've undergone;
From five o'clock till five o'clock
Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn;
I cannot get my work done ...
I give thee, Bird, advice;
If thou wouldst save thy skin alive,
Let me not warn thee twice,
"Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack—
Go on and ne'er look back!"
(Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and could not get it off his mind.)
Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!Gents' immanent furnishings!On a mystic tide I ride, I ride,Of the clothes of a million springs!I take the train for the suburbsOr I sweep from Pole to Pole,But where is the window that holds them not,Gents' furnishings of my soul!Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!Shirtings and coatings too!How can I think of mere birds, nor blinkIn the Cosmic Hullaballoo?The hot world throbs with Immenseness,The Voidness plunks in the Void,And all of it doubtless has something to doWith Employer and Unemployed!Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!Trousers through all the town!And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummiesSmirk in their blue and brown;I float in a slithering simoonOf fevered and surging tints,And my ears are dulled with the mighty throbOf the Male Best Dressers' Hints:Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!My wardrobe, they send it fleet....Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does....And the Cosmos at last complete!
Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!Gents' immanent furnishings!On a mystic tide I ride, I ride,Of the clothes of a million springs!I take the train for the suburbsOr I sweep from Pole to Pole,But where is the window that holds them not,Gents' furnishings of my soul!
Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!
Gents' immanent furnishings!
On a mystic tide I ride, I ride,
Of the clothes of a million springs!
I take the train for the suburbs
Or I sweep from Pole to Pole,
But where is the window that holds them not,
Gents' furnishings of my soul!
Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!Shirtings and coatings too!How can I think of mere birds, nor blinkIn the Cosmic Hullaballoo?The hot world throbs with Immenseness,The Voidness plunks in the Void,And all of it doubtless has something to doWith Employer and Unemployed!
Pantings, Pantings, Pantings!
Shirtings and coatings too!
How can I think of mere birds, nor blink
In the Cosmic Hullaballoo?
The hot world throbs with Immenseness,
The Voidness plunks in the Void,
And all of it doubtless has something to do
With Employer and Unemployed!
Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!Trousers through all the town!And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummiesSmirk in their blue and brown;I float in a slithering simoonOf fevered and surging tints,And my ears are dulled with the mighty throbOf the Male Best Dressers' Hints:
Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!
Trousers through all the town!
And the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies
Smirk in their blue and brown;
I float in a slithering simoon
Of fevered and surging tints,
And my ears are dulled with the mighty throb
Of the Male Best Dressers' Hints:
Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!My wardrobe, they send it fleet....Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does....And the Cosmos at last complete!
Pantings! Pantings! Pantings!
My wardrobe, they send it fleet....
Ah, the Is and the Was and the Never Does....
And the Cosmos at last complete!
(Who, incidentally, happened to be correct.)
Ho, Spring calls clear a message....The Grackle is not green....The Mighty Mother NatureShe knows just what I mean.The lilac and the willowThe grass and violetThey are my wild companionsWhere I was raised a pet.The secrets of great natureFrom childhood I have heard;Oh, I can tell a wild flowerSwiftly from a wild bird;And Gwendolen and MarnaAnd Myrtle (dead all three ...Among my wildwood sweetheartsWas much mortality).If they my loves returningMight gather 'neath these boughs(Oh, they would sniff at pear-treesWho loved the Northern Sloughs).Their wild eternal whisperWould back me up, I ween:"This bird is not a Grackle:A Grackle is not green."
Ho, Spring calls clear a message....The Grackle is not green....The Mighty Mother NatureShe knows just what I mean.
Ho, Spring calls clear a message....
The Grackle is not green....
The Mighty Mother Nature
She knows just what I mean.
The lilac and the willowThe grass and violetThey are my wild companionsWhere I was raised a pet.
The lilac and the willow
The grass and violet
They are my wild companions
Where I was raised a pet.
The secrets of great natureFrom childhood I have heard;Oh, I can tell a wild flowerSwiftly from a wild bird;
The secrets of great nature
From childhood I have heard;
Oh, I can tell a wild flower
Swiftly from a wild bird;
And Gwendolen and MarnaAnd Myrtle (dead all three ...Among my wildwood sweetheartsWas much mortality).
And Gwendolen and Marna
And Myrtle (dead all three ...
Among my wildwood sweethearts
Was much mortality).
If they my loves returningMight gather 'neath these boughs(Oh, they would sniff at pear-treesWho loved the Northern Sloughs).
If they my loves returning
Might gather 'neath these boughs
(Oh, they would sniff at pear-trees
Who loved the Northern Sloughs).
Their wild eternal whisperWould back me up, I ween:"This bird is not a Grackle:A Grackle is not green."
Their wild eternal whisper
Would back me up, I ween:
"This bird is not a Grackle:
A Grackle is not green."
(Mrs. Conkling points maternally.)
Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird!If you will watch, upon my wordHe will come out; a Veery1heAs like an Oboe as can be:He shall be wingèd, with a tail,Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail!And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh,This is my Hilda, you must know—And oh, what joy, if you but knew—She shall make poetry on you!"
Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird!If you will watch, upon my wordHe will come out; a Veery1heAs like an Oboe as can be:He shall be wingèd, with a tail,Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail!And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh,This is my Hilda, you must know—And oh, what joy, if you but knew—She shall make poetry on you!"
Oh, Hilda! see the little Bird!
If you will watch, upon my word
He will come out; a Veery1he
As like an Oboe as can be:
He shall be wingèd, with a tail,
Mayhap a Beak him shall not fail!
And I will tell him, "Birdie, oh,
This is my Hilda, you must know—
And oh, what joy, if you but knew—
She shall make poetry on you!"
(The Birdie obliges, whereupon Hilda recites obediently, while her mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes dictation.)
Oh, my lovely Mother,That is a Bird:Sitting on a Tree.I am a Little GirlStanding on the Ground.I see the Bird,The Bird sees me.Bird!Color of Grass!I love my MotherMore than I do You!
Oh, my lovely Mother,That is a Bird:Sitting on a Tree.I am a Little GirlStanding on the Ground.I see the Bird,The Bird sees me.
Oh, my lovely Mother,
That is a Bird:
Sitting on a Tree.
I am a Little Girl
Standing on the Ground.
I see the Bird,
The Bird sees me.
Bird!Color of Grass!
Bird!
Color of Grass!
I love my MotherMore than I do You!
I love my Mother
More than I do You!
1 (return)Note by the Collator: I do not pretend to explain the veery-complex of American poets. They all seemed possessed to rub it into the poor bird that he wasn't one.
(Who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she surveyed with complacence, by the third line.)
Pierrette's mother speaks:
"Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other?(Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same—)Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish motherThat named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name!Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars,With yer hair that docked an' frizzed—if Father Pat shud see!Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers,Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"But it was Bridget Sullivan,Her locks flour-sprent,That danced beneath the flowering treeLeaping as she went."If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation(Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard),Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,'Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd!Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin'(Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,)Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin',Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!"But it was Bridget Sullivan,Her head down-bent,Went back on the three-thirteen,Coughing as she went.
"Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other?(Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same—)Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish motherThat named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name!Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars,With yer hair that docked an' frizzed—if Father Pat shud see!Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers,Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"
"Sure is it Pierrette yez are, Pierrette and no other?
(Och, Pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same—)
Pertendin' to be Frinch, an' me yer poor ould Irish mother
That named ye Bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent Dublin name!
Ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars,
With yer hair that docked an' frizzed—if Father Pat shud see!
Dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers,
Amusin' these quare folk that's called a Pote-Society!"
But it was Bridget Sullivan,Her locks flour-sprent,That danced beneath the flowering treeLeaping as she went.
But it was Bridget Sullivan,
Her locks flour-sprent,
That danced beneath the flowering tree
Leaping as she went.
"If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation(Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard),Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,'Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd!Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin'(Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,)Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin',Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!"
"If there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation
(Since ye went to settlements 'tis little else I've heard),
Letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,'
Flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd!
Sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little I'd be sayin'
(Och, Pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,)
Sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin',
Talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!"
But it was Bridget Sullivan,Her head down-bent,Went back on the three-thirteen,Coughing as she went.
But it was Bridget Sullivan,
Her head down-bent,
Went back on the three-thirteen,
Coughing as she went.
(Who felt for her.)
Pierrette has gone—but it was notExactly that she lied;She said she had to catch a train;"I have a date," she cried.To keep a sudden rendezvousIt came into her mindAs quite the quickest way to fleeFrom parties of this kind;She went most softly and most soon,But still she made a stir,For, going, she took all the menTo town along with her.
Pierrette has gone—but it was notExactly that she lied;She said she had to catch a train;"I have a date," she cried.
Pierrette has gone—but it was not
Exactly that she lied;
She said she had to catch a train;
"I have a date," she cried.
To keep a sudden rendezvousIt came into her mindAs quite the quickest way to fleeFrom parties of this kind;
To keep a sudden rendezvous
It came into her mind
As quite the quickest way to flee
From parties of this kind;
She went most softly and most soon,But still she made a stir,For, going, she took all the menTo town along with her.
She went most softly and most soon,
But still she made a stir,
For, going, she took all the men
To town along with her.
(Who has an air of absolute belief in the True, the Optimistic, and the Checkbook. He seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, and to be looking about restlessly for Ella Wheeler Wilcox.)
How dear to me are home and wife,The dear old Tree I used to Love,The Pear it shed on starting lifeAnd God's Outdoors so bright above!For Virtue gets a high reward,Noble is all good Scenery,So I will root for Virtue hard,For God, for Nature, and for Me!
How dear to me are home and wife,The dear old Tree I used to Love,The Pear it shed on starting lifeAnd God's Outdoors so bright above!
How dear to me are home and wife,
The dear old Tree I used to Love,
The Pear it shed on starting life
And God's Outdoors so bright above!
For Virtue gets a high reward,Noble is all good Scenery,So I will root for Virtue hard,For God, for Nature, and for Me!
For Virtue gets a high reward,
Noble is all good Scenery,
So I will root for Virtue hard,
For God, for Nature, and for Me!
(caricature of Edgar Guest)
(Who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his friends run in New York papers. He swings a theoretical barrel of hootch above his head, and chants:)
Chris and Frank and IEach had a column;Chris and I were plump and gay,But not so F.P.A.:F.P.A. was solemn—Not so his Column;That was full of wit,As good as My ColumnNearly every bit!We sat on each an office chairAnd all snapped our scissors;Their things were pretty fairBut all of mine were Whizzers!Frank wrote of Cyril,An ungrammatic sinner,But I wrote of DrinkAnd Chris wrote of Dinner;And Frank kept getting thinnerAnd we kept getting plump—Frank sat like a BumpTranslating from the Latin,Chris wrote of Happy HomesI wrote of Alcoholic Foams,And we still seemed to fatten;Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been,I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin!But we both got fatter,So the parties didn't matter,Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her....F.P.A. went callingAnd sang about it sorely ..."Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!F.P.A. played tennisAnd told the World he did....I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry,But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me,To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree:
Chris and Frank and IEach had a column;Chris and I were plump and gay,But not so F.P.A.:F.P.A. was solemn—Not so his Column;That was full of wit,As good as My ColumnNearly every bit!We sat on each an office chairAnd all snapped our scissors;Their things were pretty fairBut all of mine were Whizzers!
Chris and Frank and I
Each had a column;
Chris and I were plump and gay,
But not so F.P.A.:
F.P.A. was solemn—
Not so his Column;
That was full of wit,
As good as My Column
Nearly every bit!
We sat on each an office chair
And all snapped our scissors;
Their things were pretty fair
But all of mine were Whizzers!
Frank wrote of Cyril,An ungrammatic sinner,But I wrote of DrinkAnd Chris wrote of Dinner;And Frank kept getting thinnerAnd we kept getting plump—Frank sat like a BumpTranslating from the Latin,Chris wrote of Happy HomesI wrote of Alcoholic Foams,And we still seemed to fatten;Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been,I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin!But we both got fatter,So the parties didn't matter,Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her....
Frank wrote of Cyril,
An ungrammatic sinner,
But I wrote of Drink
And Chris wrote of Dinner;
And Frank kept getting thinner
And we kept getting plump—
Frank sat like a Bump
Translating from the Latin,
Chris wrote of Happy Homes
I wrote of Alcoholic Foams,
And we still seemed to fatten;
Frank wrote of Swell Parties where he had been,
I wrote of Whisky-sours, and Chris wrote of Gin!
But we both got fatter,
So the parties didn't matter,
Though F.P.A. he published each as soon as he'd been at her....
F.P.A. went callingAnd sang about it sorely ..."Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!F.P.A. played tennisAnd told the World he did....I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry,But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!
F.P.A. went calling
And sang about it sorely ...
"Pass around the shandygaff," says brave old Morley!
F.P.A. played tennis
And told the World he did....
I bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!
Frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry,
But we drowned our envy in a long cool Rye!
And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me,To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree:
And then we got an invitation, Frank and Chris and me,
To come and say a poem on a Grackle in a Tree:
(caricature of Don Marquis and Christopher Morley)
But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle—"Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle!A Grackle with a Hackle,A ticklish one to tackleA tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...."And we both began to giggleAnd woggle, and wiggle,And we giggled and we gurgledAnd we gargled and were gay ...For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!
But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle—"Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle!A Grackle with a Hackle,A ticklish one to tackleA tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...."And we both began to giggleAnd woggle, and wiggle,And we giggled and we gurgledAnd we gargled and were gay ...For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!
But Chris and I'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle—
"Oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a Grackle!
A Grackle with a Hackle,
A ticklish one to tackle
A tacklish one to tickle ... To ticker ... To licker...."
And we both began to giggle
And woggle, and wiggle,
And we giggled and we gurgled
And we gargled and were gay ...
For we'd had an invitation, just the same as F.P.A.!