But Mrs. Black, the President,Of wisdom found the pinnacle:She said, "Dear me, I always thinkThose Russians are socynical."Well, poor old Solugubrious,It's true that they had heard of him;But neither Brown, Jones, Smith, nor BlackHad ever read a word of him!
Of wisdom found the pinnacle:
Those Russians are socynical."
It's true that they had heard of him;
Had ever read a word of him!
Tea DrinkerSolugubrious
Solugubrious
Howhoarse and husky in my earYour usually cheerful chirrup:You have an awful cold, my dear—Try aspirin or bronchial syrup.When I put in a call to-dayCompassion stirred my humane blood redTo hear you faintly, sadly, sayThe number:Burray Hill dide hudred!I felt (I say) quick sympathyTo hear you croak in the receiver—Will you be sorry too for meA month hence, when I have hay fever?
Your usually cheerful chirrup:
Try aspirin or bronchial syrup.
Compassion stirred my humane blood red
The number:Burray Hill dide hudred!
To hear you croak in the receiver—
A month hence, when I have hay fever?
(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 determineHow 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 leavesDo you browse among the tea leaves?How delightful to suspectAll the places you have trekked:Does your long antenna whisk itsGentle 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 tunesSwimming in the baby's prunes?Then, when dawn comes, do you slinkHomeward 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!
Midnight SnackIn the midnight, like yourself,I explore the pantry shelf!
In the midnight, like yourself,I explore the pantry shelf!
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.
III
Therewas 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.
IV
Iknewa 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 sneerThat 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 tubHe'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 soreAnd he'll never come bathing with me any more.
Conwas a thorn to brother Pro—On Pro we often sicked him:Whatever Pro would claim to knowOld Con would contradict him!
On Pro we often sicked him:
Old Con would contradict him!
TwinsThe Twins
The Twins
(Extremely technical)
I'dlike to have you meet my wife!I simply cannot keep from hintingI've never seen, in all my life,So fine a specimen of printing.Her type is not somebold-facefont,Set solid. Nay! And I will say outThat no typographer could wantTo see a better balanced layout.A nice proportion of white spaceThere is for brown eyes to look large in,And not a feature in her faceComes anywhere too near the margin.Locked up with all her sweet displayHer form will never pi. She's like aCorrected proof markedstet, O. K.—And yet she loves me, fatfacePica!She has a fine one-column head,And like a comma curves each eyebrow—Her forehead has an extra leadWhich makes her seem a trifle highbrow.Her nose,italicized brevier,Too lovely to describe by penpoint;Her mouth is set inpearl:her earAnd chin are comely Caslon ten-point.Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis)Make my pulse beat 14-em measure,And such typography as thisWould makeDe Vinnescream with pleasure.And so, of all typefounder chapsHer father's best, in my opinion;She is mynonpareil (in caps)And I (in lower case) herminion.I hope you will not stand aloofBecause my metaphors are shoppy;Of her devotion I've a proof—I tell the urchin,Follow Copy!
I simply cannot keep from hinting
So fine a specimen of printing.
Set solid. Nay! And I will say out
To see a better balanced layout.
There is for brown eyes to look large in,
Comes anywhere too near the margin.
Her form will never pi. She's like a
And yet she loves me, fatfacePica!
And like a comma curves each eyebrow—
Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.
Too lovely to describe by penpoint;
And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.
Make my pulse beat 14-em measure,
Would makeDe Vinnescream with pleasure.
Her father's best, in my opinion;
And I (in lower case) herminion.
Because my metaphors are shoppy;
I tell the urchin,Follow Copy!
Whenfire is kindled on the dogs,But still the stubborn oak delays,Small embers laid above the logsWill draw them into sudden blaze.Just so the minor poet's part:(A greater he need not desire)The charcoals of his burning heartMay light some Master into fire!
But still the stubborn oak delays,
Will draw them into sudden blaze.
(A greater he need not desire)
May light some Master into fire!
Opraiseme 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 pavingFor me, a city fool!O praise me not the leisureOf 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 thunderOf the Elevated cars!
The city for my craving,Her lordship and her slaving,The hot stones of her pavingFor me, a city fool!
For me, a city fool!
The city for my yearning,My spending and my earning.Her winding ways for learning,Sing hey! the city streets!
Sing hey! the city streets!
The city for my wooing,My dreaming and my doing;Her beauty for pursuing,Her deathless mysteries.
Her deathless mysteries.
The city for my wonder,Her glory and her blunder,And O the haunting thunderOf the Elevated cars!
Of the Elevated cars!
SeascapeO praise me not the country
O praise me not the country
(New York)
Here Lyes the Body ofIohn Jones the Son ofIohn Jones Who DepartedThis Life December the 131768 Aged 4 Years & 4 Months & 2 Days
Here, where enormous shadows creep,He casts his childish shadow too:How small he seems, beneath the steepGreat 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 climbOur heartbreaks are but little thingsIn the equality of Time.The sum of life, for all men's stones:He was John Jones, son of John Jones.
He casts his childish shadow too:
Great walls; his tender days, so few,
Yet though our buildings skyward climb
In the equality of Time.
Onthe curb of a city pavement,By the ash and garbage cans,In the stench and rolling thunderOf motor trucks and vans,There sits my little lady,With brave but troubled eyes,And in her arms a babyThat cries and cries and cries.She cannot be more than seven;But years go fast in the slums,And hard on the pains of winterThe pitiless summer comes.The wail of sickly childrenShe knows; she understandsThe 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 the ash and garbage cans,
Of motor trucks and vans,
With brave but troubled eyes,
That cries and cries and cries.
But years go fast in the slums,
The pitiless summer comes.
She knows; she understands
The clutch of small hot hands.
That turns men faint and mad,
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 dearerThan the perfect robe of a queen!Poor little lass, who knows notThe blessing of being clean.And when you are giving millionsTo Belgian, Pole and Serb,Remember my pitiful lady—Madonna of the Curb!
By telling a dream she had—
And ice, and a singing fan;
Just like the drug-store man.
Than the perfect robe of a queen!
The blessing of being clean.
To Belgian, Pole and Serb,
Madonna of the Curb!
Child on KerbsideThe wail of sickly childrenShe knows; she understandsThe pangs of puny bodies,The clutch of small hot hands.
The wail of sickly childrenShe knows; she understandsThe pangs of puny bodies,The clutch of small hot hands.
Asongfor England?Nay, what is a song for England?Our hearts go by green-cliffed KinsaleAmong the gulls' white wings,Or where, on Kentish forelands paleThe lighthouse beacon swings:Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide,Come in on Suffolk foam—The blood that will not be deniedMoves fast, and calls us home!Our hearts now walk a secret roundOn many a Cotswold hill,For we are mixed of island ground,The island draws us still:Our hearts may pace a windy turnWhere Sussex downs are high,Or watch the lights of London burn,A bonfire in the sky!What is the virtue of that soilThat flings her strength so wide?Her ancient courage, patient toil,Her stubborn wordless pride?A little land, yet loved thereinAs 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 JackAcross some deep-sea lane;Though all the world be of rich costAnd marvellous with worth,Yet if that island ground were lostHow empty were the earth!A song for England?Lo, every word we speak's a song for England.
Nay, what is a song for England?
Among the gulls' white wings,
The lighthouse beacon swings:
Come in on Suffolk foam—
Moves fast, and calls us home!
On many a Cotswold hill,
The island draws us still:
Where Sussex downs are high,
A bonfire in the sky!
That flings her strength so wide?
Her stubborn wordless pride?
As any land may be,
The salt stress of the sea.
Our lips taste English rain,
Across some deep-sea lane;
And marvellous with worth,
How empty were the earth!
Twograve brown eyes, severely bentUpon a memorandum book—A sparkling face, on which are blentA hopeful and a pensive look;A pencil, purse, and book of checksWith 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 thereThe while she calculates and plans;What's this? A faintly pensive frownUpon her forehead gathers now—Ah, does the butcher—heartless clown—Beget that shadow on her brow?
Upon a memorandum book—
A hopeful and a pensive look;
With stubs for varying amounts—
Is busy balancing accounts.
She, all engrossed, the audit scans—
The while she calculates and plans;
Upon her forehead gathers now—
Beget that shadow on her brow?
A murrain on the tradesman churlWho caused this fair accountant's gloom!Just then—a baby's cry—my girlArose and swiftly left the room.Then in her purse by stratagemI thrust some bills of small amounts—She'll think she had forgotten them,And smile again at her accounts!
Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!
Arose and swiftly left the room.
I thrust some bills of small amounts—
And smile again at her accounts!
Women readingAh, does the butcher—heartless clown—Beget that shadow on her brow?
Ah, does the butcher—heartless clown—Beget that shadow on her brow?
To Rupert Brooke
OEngland, England ... that JulyHow placidly the days went by!Two years ago (how long it seems)In that dear England of my dreamsI loved and smoked and laughed amainAnd rode to Cambridge in the rain.A careless godlike life was there!To spin the roads withShotover,To dream while punting on the Cam,To lie, and never give a damnFor anything but comradeshipAnd books to read and ale to sip,And shandygaff at every innWhenThe Gorillarode to Lynn!O world of wheel and pipe and oarIn those old days before the War.O poignant echoes of that time!I hear the Oxford towers chime,The throbbing of those mellow bellsAnd all the sweet old English smells—The Deben water, quick with salt,The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt;The Suffolk villages, sereneWith lads at cricket on the green,And Wytham strawberries, so ripe,AndMurray's Mixturein my pipe!In those dear days, in those dear days,All pleasant lay the country ways;The echoes of our stalwart mirthWent echoing wide around the earthAnd in an endless bliss of sunWe lay and watched the river run.And you by Cam and I by IsisWere happy with our own devices.Ah, can we ever know againSuch 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 seeThe life we led at twenty-three.Never again, perhaps, shall IGo flashing bravely down the HighTo see, in that transcendent hour,The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recallThose endless afternoons, and allYour Cambridge—which I loved as oneWho was her grandson, not her son.O ripples where the river slacksIn greening eddies round the "backs";Where men have dreamed such gallant thingsUnder the old stone bridge atKing's.Or leaned to feed the silver swansBy the tennis meads atJohn's.O Granta's water, cold and fresh,Kissing the warm and eager fleshUnder the willow's breathing stir—The bathing pool atGrantchester....What words can tell, what words can praiseThe burly savor of those days!Dear singing lad, those days are deadAnd gone for aye your golden head;And many other well-loved menWill never dine in Hall again.I too have lived remembered hoursIn Cambridge; heard the summer showersMake music on oldHeffer'spaneWhile I was reading Pepys or Taine.ThroughTrumpingtonandGrantchesterI used to roll onShotover;AtHauxton Bridgemy lamp would lightAnd sleep inRoystonfor the night.Or toFive Miles from AnywhereI used to scull; and sit and swearWhile wasps attacked my bread and jamThose summer evenings on the Cam.(O crispy English cottage-loavesBaked in ovens, not in stoves!O white unsalted English butterO satisfaction none can utter!)...To think that while those joys I knewIn Cambridge, I did not know you.July, 1915.
July, 1915.
Awell-sharp'dpencil 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 steepHave (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.
Onoblegracious English tongueWhose fibers we so sadly twist,For caitiff measures he has sungHave 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 artSave in straightforward Saxon speech.Yet not in ignorance or spite,Nor with Thy noble past forgotWe sinned: indeed we had to writeTo keep a fire beneath the pot.Then grant that in the coming time,With inky hand and polished sleeve,In lucid prose or honest rhymeSome 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.
Saythis poor fool misfeatured all his days,And could not mend his ways;And say he trodMost heavily upon the corns of God.But also say that in his clabbered brainThere was the essential pain—The idiot's vowTo tell his troubled Truth, no matter how.Unhappy fool, you say, with pitiful air:Who was he, then, and where?Ah, you divineHe lives in your heart, as he lives in mine.
To bed
end paper
Transcribers notes
Kept to original format
Page 97 to a discarded mirror - image added and text translated from mirror image