Girl by Gate
Dearlittle house, dear shabby street,Dear books and beds and food to eat!How feeble words are to expressThe facets of your tenderness.How white the sun comes through the pane!In tinkling music drips the rain!How burning bright the furnace glows!What paths to shovel when it snows!O dearly loved Long Island trains!O well remembered joys and pains....How near the housetops Beauty leansAlong that little street in Queens!Let these poor rhymes abide for proofJoy dwells beneath a humble roof;Heaven is not built of country seatsBut little queer suburban streets!March, 1917.
Thisis a sacrament, I think!Holding the bottle toward the light,As blue as lupin gleams the ink;May Truth be with me as I write!That small dark cistern may affordReunion with some vanished friend,—And with this ink I have just pouredMay none but honest words be penned!
Holding the bottle toward the light,
May Truth be with me as I write!
Reunion with some vanished friend,—
May none but honest words be penned!
Thishearth was built for thy delight,For thee the logs were sawn,For thee the largest chair, at night,Is to the chimney drawn.For thee, dear lass, the match was litTo yield the ruddy blaze—May Jack Frost give us joy of itFor many, many days
For thee the logs were sawn,
Is to the chimney drawn.
To yield the ruddy blaze—
For many, many days
Tomake this house my very ownCould not be done by law alone.Though covenant and deed conveyAbsolute fee, as lawyers say,There are domestic rites besideBy which this house is sanctified.By kindled fire upon the hearth,By planted pansies in the garth,By food, and by the quiet restOf those brown eyes that I love best,And by a friend's bright gift of wine,I dedicate this house of mine.When all but I are soft abedI trail about my quiet steadA wreath of blue tobacco smoke(A charm that evil never broke)And bring my ritual to an endBy giving shelter to a friend.These done, O dwelling, you becomeNot just a house, but truly Home!
And by a friend's bright gift of wine,And by a friend's bright gift of wine,I dedicate this house of mine
And by a friend's bright gift of wine,I dedicate this house of mine
Itwas the House of QuietnessTo which I came at dusk;The garth was lit with rosesAnd heavy with their musk.The tremulous tall poplar treesStood whispering around,The gentle flicker of their plumesMore quiet than no sound.And as I wondered at the doorWhat magic might be there,The Lady of Sweet SilencesCame softly down the stair.
To which I came at dusk;
And heavy with their musk.
Stood whispering around,
More quiet than no sound.
What magic might be there,
Came softly down the stair.
Down-slippingTime, sweet, swift, and shallow stream,Here, like a boulder, lies this afternoonAcross your eager flow. So you shall stay,Deepened and dammed, to let me breathe and be.Your troubled fluency, your running gleamShall pause, and circle idly, still and clear:The while I lie and search your glassy poolWhere, gently coiling in their lazy round,Unseparable minutes drift and swim,Eddy and rise and brim. And I will seeHow many crystal bubbles of slack TimeThe mind can hold and cherish in oneNow!Now, for one conscious vacancy of sense,The stream is gathered in a deepening pond,Not a mere moving mirror. Through the sharpCorrect reflection of the standing sceneThe mind can dip, and cleanse itself with rest,And see, slow spinning in the lucid gold,Your liquid motes, imperishable Time.It cannot be. The runnel slips away:The clear smooth downward sluice begins again,More brightly slanting for that trembling pause,Leaving the sense its conscious vague uneaseAs when a sonnet flashes on the mind,Trembles and burns an instant, and is gone.
Truthis enough for prose:Calmly it goesTo tell just what it knows.For verse, skill will suffice—Delicate, niceCasting of verbal dice.Poetry, men attainBy subtler painMore flagrant in the brain—An honesty unfeigned,A heart unchained,A madness well restrained.
Itshould be yours, if I could buildThe quaint old dwelling I desire,With books and pictures bravely filledAnd chairs beside an open fire,White-panelled rooms with candles lit—I lie awake to think of it!A dial for the sunny hours,A garden of old-fashioned flowers—Say marigolds and lavenderAnd mignonette and fever-few,And Judas-tree and maidenhairAnd candytuft and thyme and rue—All these for you to wander in.A Chinese carp (calledMandarin)Waving a sluggish silver finDeep in the moat: so tame he comesTo lip your fingers offering crumbs.Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,White shutters, ivy green and thick,And walls of ruddy Tudor brickGrown mellow with the passing years.And windows with small leaded panes,Broad window-seats for when it rains;A big blue bowl of pot pourriAnd—yes, a Spanish chestnut treeTo coin the autumn's minted gold.A summer house for drinking tea—All these (just think!) for you and me.A staircase of the old black woodCut in the days of Robin Hood,And banisters worn smooth as glassDown which your hand will lightly pass;A piano with pale yellow keysFor wistful twilight melodies,And dusty bottles in a bin—All these for you to revel in!But when? Ah well, until that timeWe'll habit in this house of rhyme.1912
WhenI a householder becameI had to give my house a name.I thought I'd call it "Poplar Trees,"Or "Widdershins" or "Velvet Bees,"Or "Just Beneath a Star."I thought of "House Where Plumbings Freeze,"Or "As You Like it," "If You Please,"Or "Nicotine" or "Bread and Cheese,""Full Moon" or "Doors Ajar."But still I sought some subtle charm,Some rune to guard my roof from harmAnd keep the devil far;I thought of this, and I was saved!I had my letter-heads engravedThe House Where Brown Eyes Are.
I had to give my house a name.
Or "Just Beneath a Star."
"Full Moon" or "Doors Ajar."
And keep the devil far;
The House Where Brown Eyes Are.
Doyou remember, Heart's Desire,The night when Hallowe'en first came?The newly dedicated fire,The hearth unsanctified by flame?How anxiously we swept the bricks(How tragic, were the draught not right!)And then the blaze enwrapped the sticksAnd filled the room with dancing light.We could not speak, but only gaze,Nor half believe what we had seen—Ourhome,ourhearth,ourgolden blaze,Ourcider mugs,ourHallowe'en!And then a thought occurred to me—We ran outside with sudden shoutAnd looked up at the roof, to seeOur own dear smoke come drifting out.And of all man's felicitiesThe very subtlest one, say I,Is when, for the first time, he seesHis hearthfire smoke against the sky.
The night when Hallowe'en first came?
The hearth unsanctified by flame?
(How tragic, were the draught not right!)
And filled the room with dancing light.
Nor half believe what we had seen—
Ourcider mugs,ourHallowe'en!
We ran outside with sudden shout
Our own dear smoke come drifting out.
The very subtlest one, say I,
His hearthfire smoke against the sky.
And of all man's felicitiesAnd of all man's felicitiesThe very subtlest one, say I,Is when, for the first time, he seesHis hearthfire smoke against the sky.
And of all man's felicitiesThe very subtlest one, say I,Is when, for the first time, he seesHis hearthfire smoke against the sky.
IfI should tell, unstinted,Your beauty and your grace,All future lads would whisperTraditions of your face;If I made public tumultYour mirth, your queenly state,Posterity would grumbleThat it was born too late.I will not frame your beautyIn bright undying phrase,Nor blaze it as a legendFor unborn men to praise—For why should future loversBe saddened and depressed?Deluded, let them fancyTheir own girls loveliest!
Your beauty and your grace,
Traditions of your face;
Your mirth, your queenly state,
That it was born too late.
In bright undying phrase,
For unborn men to praise—
Be saddened and depressed?
Their own girls loveliest!
Dearsweet, when dusk comes up the hill,The fire leaps high with golden prongs;I place along the chimneysillThe tiny candles of my songs.
The fire leaps high with golden prongs;
The tiny candles of my songs.
And though unsteadily they burn,As evening shades from gray to blueLike candles they will surely learnTo shine more clear, for love of you.
As evening shades from gray to blue
To shine more clear, for love of you.
"I had a secret laughter."—Walter de la Mare.
Thereis a secret laughterThat often comes to me,And though I go about my workAs humble as can be,There is no prince or prelateI envy—no, not one.No evil can befall me—By God, I have a son!
That often comes to me,
I envy—no, not one.
By God, I have a son!
Heis so small, he does not knowThe summer sun, the winter snow;The spring that ebbs and comes again,All this is far beyond his ken.A little world he feels and sees:His mother's arms, his mother's knees;He hides his face against her breast,And does not care to learn the rest.
Babe in ArmsA little world he feels and sees:His mother's arms, his mother's knees—
A little world he feels and sees:His mother's arms, his mother's knees—
For Our New Fireplace,To Stop Its Smoking
Owood, burn bright; O flame, be quick;O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue—My lady chose your every brickAnd sets her dearest hopes on you!Logs cannot burn, nor tea be sweet,Nor white bread turn to crispy toast,Until the charm be made completeBy love, to lay the sooty ghost.And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,Dear china and mahogany,Draw close, for on the happy stairsMy brown-eyed girl comes down for tea!
My pipeis oldAnd caked with soot;My wife remarks:"How can you putThat horrid relic,So unclean,Inside your mouth?The nicotineIs strong enoughTo stupefyA Swedish plumber."I reply:"This is the kindOf pipe I like:I fill it fullOf Happy Strike,Or Barking CatOr Cabman's Puff,Or Brooklyn Bridge(That potent stuff)Or Chaste Embraces,Knacker's Twist,Old HoneycombOr Niggerfist.I clamp my teethUpon its stem—It is my bliss,My diadem.Whatever FateMay do to me,This is my favoriteBB B.For this dear pipeYou feign to scornI smoked the nightThe boy was born."
B
Lilac, violet, and roseArdently the city glows;Sunset glory, purely sweet,Gilds the dreaming byway-street,And, above the Avenue,Winter dusk is deepening blue.(Then, across Long Island meadows,Darker, darker, grow the shadows:Patience, little waiting lass!Laggard minutes slowly pass;Patience, laughs the yellow fire:Homeward bound is heart's desire!)Hark, adown the canyon streetFlows the merry tide of feet;High the golden buildings loomBlazing in the purple gloom;All the town is set with stars,Homewardchant the Broadway cars!
(Then, across Long Island meadows,Darker, darker, grow the shadows:Patience, little waiting lass!Laggard minutes slowly pass;Patience, laughs the yellow fire:Homeward bound is heart's desire!)
All down Thirty-second StreetHomeward, Homeward, say the feet!Tramping men, uncouth to view,Footsore, weary, thrill anew;Gone the ringing telephones,Blessed nightfall now atones,Casting brightness on the snowGolden the train windows go.
Then (how long it seems) at lastAll the way is overpast.Heart that beats your muffled drum,Lo, your venturer is come!Wide the door! Leap high, O fire!Home at length is heart's desire!Gone is weariness and fret,At the sill warm lips are met.Once again may be renewedThe conjoined beatitude.
The 5:42The 5:42
The 5:42
"The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan—the original of Peter Pan—has died in battle."
—New York Times.
AndPeter Pan is dead? Not so!When mothers turn the lights down lowAnd tuck their little sons in bed,They know that Peter is not dead....That little rounded blanket-hill;Those prayer-time eyes, so deep and still—However wise and great a manHe grows, he still is Peter Pan.And mothers' ways are often queer:They pause in doorways, just to hearA tiny breathing; think a prayer;And then go tiptoe down the stair.
Taffy, the topaz-colored cat,Thinks now of this and now of that,But chiefly of his meals.Asparagus, and cream, and fish,Are objects of his Freudian wish;What you don't give, he steals.His gallant heart is strongly stirredBy clink of plate or flight of bird,He has a plumy tail;At night he treads on stealthy padAs merry as Sir GalahadA-seeking of the Grail.His amiable amber eyesAre very friendly, very wise;Like Buddha, grave and fat,He sits, regardless of applause,And thinking, as he kneads his paws,What fun to be a cat!
Hermind is like her cedar chestWherein in quietness do restThe wistful dreamings of her heartIn fragrant folds all laid apart.There, put away in sprigs of rhymeUntil her life's full blossom-time,Flutter (like tremulous little birds)Her small and sweet maternal words.
Oncewe read Tennyson aloudIn our great fireside chair;Between the lines, my lips could touchHer April-scented hair.How very fond I was, to thinkThe printed poems fair,When close within my arms I heldA living lyric there!
In our great fireside chair;
Her April-scented hair.
The printed poems fair,
A living lyric there!
Animalcrackers, and cocoa to drink,That is the finest of suppers, I think;When I'm grown up and can have what I pleaseI think I shall always insist upon these.What doyouchoose when you're offered a treat?When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?It's cocoa and animals thatIlove most!The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know:The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,And there in the twilight, how jolly to seeThe cocoa and animals waiting for me.Daddy and Mother dine later in state,With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;But they don't have nearly as much fun as IWho eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;And Daddy once said, he would like to be meHaving cocoa and animals once more for tea!
Animal CrackersAnd Daddy once said he would like to be meHaving cocoa and animals once more for tea!
And Daddy once said he would like to be meHaving cocoa and animals once more for tea!
Earlyin the morning, when the dawn is on the roofs,You hear his wheels come rolling, you hear his horse's hoofs;You hear the bottles clinking, and then he drives away:You yawn in bed, turn over, and begin another day!The old-time dairy maids are dear to every poet's heart—I'd rather be the dairymanand drive a little cart,And bustle round the village in the early morning blue,And hang my reins upon a hook, as I've seen Casey do.
Atnight the gas lamps light our street,Electric bulbs our homes;The gas is billed in cubic feet,Electric light in ohms.But one illumination stillIs brighter far, and sweeter;It is not figured in a bill,Nor measured by a meter.More bright than lights that money buys,More pleasing to discerners,The shining lamps of Helen's eyes,Those lovely double burners!
Electric bulbs our homes;
Electric light in ohms.
Is brighter far, and sweeter;
Nor measured by a meter.
More pleasing to discerners,
Those lovely double burners!
Atnight I openedThe furnace door:The warm glow brightenedThe cellar floor.The fire that sparkledBlue and red,Kept small toes cosyIn their bed.As up the stairSo late I stole,I said my prayer:Thank God for coal!
The furnace door:
The cellar floor.
Blue and red,
In their bed.
So late I stole,
Thank God for coal!
Whenwe on simple rations supHow easy is the washing up!But heavy feeding complicatesThe task by soiling many plates.And though I grant that I have prayedThat we might find a serving-maid,I'd scullion all my days, I think,To see Her smile across the sink!I wash, She wipes. In water hotI souse each dish and pan and pot;While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,And rubs himself against my legs.The man who never in his lifeHas washed the dishes with his wifeOr polished up the silver plate—He still is largely celibate.One warning: there is certain wareThat must be handled with all care:The Lord Himself will give you upIf you should drop a willow cup!
Washing DishesBut heavy feeding complicatesThe task by soiling many plates.
But heavy feeding complicatesThe task by soiling many plates.
AsI went by the church to-dayI heard the organ cry;And goodly folk were on their knees,But I went striding by.My minster hath a roof more vast:My aisles are oak trees high;My altar-cloth is on the hills,My organ is the sky.I see my rood upon the clouds,The winds, my chanted choir;My crystal windows, heaven-glazed,Are stained with sunset fire.The stars, the thunder, and the rain,White sands and purple seas—These are His pulpit and His pew,My God of Unbent Knees!
I heard the organ cry;
But I went striding by.
My aisles are oak trees high;
My organ is the sky.
The winds, my chanted choir;
Are stained with sunset fire.
White sands and purple seas—
My God of Unbent Knees!
Thefurnace tolls the knell of falling steam,The coal supply is virtually done,And at this price, indeed it does not seemAs though we could afford another ton.Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;The radiators lose their temperature:How ill avail, on such a frosty night,The "short and simple flannels of the poor."Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bustRevivify the failing pressure-gauge?Chop up the grand piano if you must,And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!
The coal supply is virtually done,
As though we could afford another ton.
The radiators lose their temperature:
The "short and simple flannels of the poor."
The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,
We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.
Revivify the failing pressure-gauge?
And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!
Full many a can of purest keroseneThe dark unfathomed tanks of Standard OilShall furnish me, and with their aid I meanTo bring my morning coffee to a boil.
The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil
To bring my morning coffee to a boil.
Frosty NightHow ill avail, on such a frosty night....
How ill avail, on such a frosty night....
Ioftenwander on the beachWhere once, so brown of limb,The biting air, the roaring surfSummoned me to swim.I see my old abundant youthWhere combers lean and spill,And though I taste the foam no moreOther swimmers will.Oh, good exultant strength to meetThe arching wall of green,To break the crystal, swirl, emergeDripping, taut, and clean.To climb the moving hilly blue,To dive in ecstasyAnd feel the salty chill embraceArm and rib and knee.What brave and vanished laughter thenAnd tingling thighs to run,What warm and comfortable sandsDreaming in the sun.The crumbling water spreads in snow,The surf is hissing still,And though I kiss the salt no moreOther swimmers will.
The Old SwimmerThe Old Swimmer
The Old Swimmer
Themoon seems like a docile sheep,She pastures while all people sleep;But sometimes, when she goes astray,She wanders all alone by day.Up in the clear blue morning airWe are surprised to see her there,Grazing in her woolly white,Waiting the return of night.When dusk lets down the meadow barsShe greets again her lambs, the stars!
Whyis it that the poets tellSo little of the sense of smell?These are the odors I love well:The smell of coffee freshly ground;Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;Or onions fried and deeply browned.The fragrance of a fumy pipe;The smell of apples, newly ripe;And printers' ink on leaden type.Woods by moonlight in SeptemberBreathe most sweet; and I rememberMany a smoky camp-fire ember.Camphor, turpentine, and tea,The balsam of a Christmas tree,These are whiffs of gramarye ...A ship smells best of all to me!
MyDaddy smells like tobacco and books,Mother, like lavender and listerine;Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars,Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean.Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own(When he's been out in the rain he smells most);But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all—
Mother, like lavender and listerine;
Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean.
(When he's been out in the rain he smells most);
She smells exactly like hot buttered toast!
Katie the CookBut Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all—
But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all—
Ilikethe Chinese laundryman:He smokes a pipe that bubbles,And seems, as far as I can tell,A man with but few troubles.He has much to do, no doubt,But also much to think about.Most men (for instance I myself)Are spending, at all times,All our hard-earned quarters,Our nickels and our dimes:With Mar Quong it's the other way—He takes in small change every day.Next time you call for collarsIn his steamy little shop,Observe how tight his pigtailIs coiled and piled on top.But late at night he lets it hangAnd thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.
OnSaturdays, after the babyIs bathed, fed, and sleeping serene,His mother, as quickly as may be,Arranges the household routine.She rapidly makes herself prettyAnd leaves the young limb with his nurse,Then gaily she starts for the city,And with her the fat little purse.She trips through the crowd at the station,To the rendezvous spot where we meet,And keeping her eyes from temptation,She avoids the most windowy street!She is off for the Weekly Adventure;To her comrade for better and worseShe says, "Never mind, when you've spent yourLast bit, here's the fat little purse."Apart, in her thrifty exchequer,She has hidden what must not be spent:Enough for the butcher and baker,Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent;But the rest of her brave little treasureShe is gleeful and prompt to disburse—What a richness of innocent pleasureCan come from her fat little purse!
Is bathed, fed, and sleeping serene,
Arranges the household routine.
And leaves the young limb with his nurse,
And with her the fat little purse.
To the rendezvous spot where we meet,
She avoids the most windowy street!
To her comrade for better and worse
Last bit, here's the fat little purse."
She has hidden what must not be spent:
Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent;
She is gleeful and prompt to disburse—
Can come from her fat little purse!
But either by giving or buying,The little purse does not stay fat—Perhaps it's a ragged child crying,Perhaps it's a "pert little hat."And the bonny brown eyes that were brightenedBy pleasures so quaint and diverse,Look up at me, wistful and frightened,To see such a thin little purse.The wisest of all financieringIs that which is done by our wives:By some little known profiteeringThey add twos and twos and make fives;And, husband, if you would be learningThe secret of thrift, it is terse:Invest the great part of your earningIn her little, fat little purse.
The little purse does not stay fat—
Perhaps it's a "pert little hat."
By pleasures so quaint and diverse,
To see such a thin little purse.
Is that which is done by our wives:
They add twos and twos and make fives;
The secret of thrift, it is terse:
In her little, fat little purse.
crying childPerhaps it's a ragged child crying
Perhaps it's a ragged child crying
Ihavenot heard her voice, nor seen her face,Nor touched her hand;And yet some echo of her woman's graceI understand.I have no picture of her lovelihood,Her smile, her tint;But that she is both beautiful and goodI have true hint.In all that my friend thinks and says, I seeHer mirror true;His thought of her is gentle; she must beAll gentle too.In all his grief or laughter, work or play,Each mood and whim,How brave and tender, day by common day,She speaks through him!Therefore I say I know her, be her face>Or dark or fair—For when he shows his heart's most secret placeI see her there!
Nor touched her hand;
I understand.
Her smile, her tint;
I have true hint.
Her mirror true;
All gentle too.
Each mood and whim,
She speaks through him!
Or dark or fair—
I see her there!
Whois the man on Chestnut streetWith colored toy balloons?I see him with his airy freightOn sunny afternoons—A peddler of such lovely goods!The heart leaps to beholdHis mass of bubbles, red and greenAnd blue and pink and gold.For sure that noble peddler manHath antic merchandise:His toys that float and swim in airAttract my eager eyes.Perhaps he is a changeling princeBewitched through magic moonsTo tempt us solemn busy folkWith meaningless balloons.Beware, oh, valiant merchantman,Tread cautious on the pave!Lest some day come some realist,Some haggard soul and grave,
With colored toy balloons?
On sunny afternoons—
The heart leaps to behold
And blue and pink and gold.
Hath antic merchandise:
Attract my eager eyes.
Bewitched through magic moons
With meaningless balloons.
Tread cautious on the pave!
Some haggard soul and grave,
A puritan efficientistWho deems thy toys a sin—He'll stalk thee madly from behindAnd prick them with a pin!
Who deems thy toys a sin—
And prick them with a pin!
Balloon PeddlarThe Balloon Peddler
The Balloon Peddler
Touse my books all friends are bid:My shelves are open for 'em;And in each one, as Grolier did,I writeEt Amicorum.All lovely things in truth belongTo him who best employs them;The house, the picture and the songAre his who most enjoys them.Perhaps this book holds precious lore,And you may best discern it.If you appreciate it moreThan I—why don't return it!
My shelves are open for 'em;
I writeEt Amicorum.
To him who best employs them;
Are his who most enjoys them.
And you may best discern it.
Than I—why don't return it!
LibraryIf you appreciate it moreThan I—why don't return it!
If you appreciate it moreThan I—why don't return it!
Howmany humble hearts have dippedIn you, and scrawled their manuscript!Have shared their secrets, told their cares,Their curious and quaint affairs!Your pool of ink, your scratchy pen,Have moved the lives of unborn men,And watched young people, breathing hard,Put Heaven on a postal card.
IsoughtimmortalityHere and there—I sent my rocketsInto the air:I gave my nameA hostage to ink;I dined a criticAnd bought him drink.I spurned the wearinessOf the flesh;Denied fatigueAnd began afresh—If men knew all,How they would laugh!I even plannedMy epitaph....And then one nightWhen the dusk was thinI heard the nurseryRites begin:
Here and there—
Into the air:
A hostage to ink;
And bought him drink.
Of the flesh;
And began afresh—
How they would laugh!
My epitaph....
When the dusk was thin
Rites begin:
I heard the tenderSoothings saidOver a crib, andA small sweet head.Then in a flashIt came to meThat there was myImmortality!
Soothings said
A small sweet head.
It came to me
Immortality!
NurseryAnd then one nightWhen the dusk was thinI heard the nurseryRites begin—
And then one nightWhen the dusk was thinI heard the nurseryRites begin—
Thebarren music of a word or phrase,The futile arts of syllable and stress,He sought. The poetry of common daysHe did not guess.The simplest, sweetest rhythms life affords—Unselfish love, true effort truly done,The tender themes that underlie all words—He knew not one.The human cadence and the subtle chimeOf little laughters, home and child and wife,He knew not. Artist merely in his rhyme,Not in his life.
The futile arts of syllable and stress,
He did not guess.
Unselfish love, true effort truly done,
He knew not one.
Of little laughters, home and child and wife,
Not in his life.