A BALLADE OF PROTESTBY CAROLYN WELLS
BY CAROLYN WELLS
MYPegasus strains at his curb,Although I have him tightly geared.Though I protest, with speech acerb;I cannot hold him, I’m afeard.Oh, never has he so careered!He’s like a bee-stung Hippodrome;But, though his laws I’ve e’er revered,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!To keep my seat doth me perturb;He plunges on, with head upreared,—As he had eaten witches’ herb,—Raging his maddened way, unsteered.He wants my fair word-pictures smearedWith thought laid on in polychrome!Nay, we shall leave one fence uncleared;I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!He’d have me shape a lissome verbLike a three-sided noun, ensphered!He babbles of effects superb,Produced by themes with truth veneered.No! Till the Joy of Life is biered,Till Reason wobbles in her dome,Till all Fame’s other eels are speared,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
MYPegasus strains at his curb,Although I have him tightly geared.Though I protest, with speech acerb;I cannot hold him, I’m afeard.Oh, never has he so careered!He’s like a bee-stung Hippodrome;But, though his laws I’ve e’er revered,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!To keep my seat doth me perturb;He plunges on, with head upreared,—As he had eaten witches’ herb,—Raging his maddened way, unsteered.He wants my fair word-pictures smearedWith thought laid on in polychrome!Nay, we shall leave one fence uncleared;I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!He’d have me shape a lissome verbLike a three-sided noun, ensphered!He babbles of effects superb,Produced by themes with truth veneered.No! Till the Joy of Life is biered,Till Reason wobbles in her dome,Till all Fame’s other eels are speared,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
MYPegasus strains at his curb,Although I have him tightly geared.Though I protest, with speech acerb;I cannot hold him, I’m afeard.Oh, never has he so careered!He’s like a bee-stung Hippodrome;But, though his laws I’ve e’er revered,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
MYPegasus strains at his curb,
Although I have him tightly geared.
Though I protest, with speech acerb;
I cannot hold him, I’m afeard.
Oh, never has he so careered!
He’s like a bee-stung Hippodrome;
But, though his laws I’ve e’er revered,
I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
To keep my seat doth me perturb;He plunges on, with head upreared,—As he had eaten witches’ herb,—Raging his maddened way, unsteered.He wants my fair word-pictures smearedWith thought laid on in polychrome!Nay, we shall leave one fence uncleared;I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
To keep my seat doth me perturb;
He plunges on, with head upreared,—
As he had eaten witches’ herb,—
Raging his maddened way, unsteered.
He wants my fair word-pictures smeared
With thought laid on in polychrome!
Nay, we shall leave one fence uncleared;
I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
He’d have me shape a lissome verbLike a three-sided noun, ensphered!He babbles of effects superb,Produced by themes with truth veneered.No! Till the Joy of Life is biered,Till Reason wobbles in her dome,Till all Fame’s other eels are speared,I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
He’d have me shape a lissome verb
Like a three-sided noun, ensphered!
He babbles of effects superb,
Produced by themes with truth veneered.
No! Till the Joy of Life is biered,
Till Reason wobbles in her dome,
Till all Fame’s other eels are speared,
I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
L’ENVOI
PEGASUS, go and dree thy weird;Down Duchamp’s staircase sadly roam;I cannot havemylaurels queered,—I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
PEGASUS, go and dree thy weird;Down Duchamp’s staircase sadly roam;I cannot havemylaurels queered,—I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
PEGASUS, go and dree thy weird;Down Duchamp’s staircase sadly roam;I cannot havemylaurels queered,—I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
PEGASUS, go and dree thy weird;
Down Duchamp’s staircase sadly roam;
I cannot havemylaurels queered,—
I willnotwrite a Cubist Pome!
Drawn by Oliver HerfordFOREIGN LABORLooking over our spring samples.
Drawn by Oliver Herford
FOREIGN LABOR
Looking over our spring samples.
Drawn by J. R. ShaverNINETY DEGREES IN THE SHADE“Aren’t we having fun, Father?”
Drawn by J. R. Shaver
NINETY DEGREES IN THE SHADE
“Aren’t we having fun, Father?”
THE BUTTERFLYBY RUTH McENERY STUARTSIS’ BUTTERFLYaimed to work all right,But ’er wings des was heavy, an’ ’er head too light;So she riz in de air, caze she see she was madeJes’ to fly in de sun in de beauty parade.An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat, in dat—An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat.❏LARGER IMAGE
THE BUTTERFLY
BY RUTH McENERY STUART
SIS’ BUTTERFLYaimed to work all right,But ’er wings des was heavy, an’ ’er head too light;So she riz in de air, caze she see she was madeJes’ to fly in de sun in de beauty parade.An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat, in dat—An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat.
SIS’ BUTTERFLYaimed to work all right,But ’er wings des was heavy, an’ ’er head too light;So she riz in de air, caze she see she was madeJes’ to fly in de sun in de beauty parade.An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat, in dat—An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat.
SIS’ BUTTERFLYaimed to work all right,
But ’er wings des was heavy, an’ ’er head too light;
So she riz in de air, caze she see she was made
Jes’ to fly in de sun in de beauty parade.
An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat, in dat—
An’ she ain’t by ’erself in dat.
❏LARGER IMAGE