Chimneysmoke

No Malory of old romance,

No Crusoe tale, it seems to me,

Can equal in rich circumstance

This telephone directory.

No ballad of fair ladies' eyes,

No legend of proud knights and dames,

Can fill me with such bright surmise

As this great book of numbered names!

How many hearts and lives unknown,

Rare damsels pining for a squire,

Are waiting for the telephone

To ring, and call them to the wire.

Some wait to hear a loved voice say

The news they will rejoice to know

At Rome 2637 J

Or Marathon 1450!

And some, perhaps, are stung with fear

And answer with reluctant tread:

The message they expect to hear

Means life or death or daily bread.

A million hearts here wait our call,

All naked to our distant speech—

I wish that I could ring them all

And have some welcome news for each!

GREEN ESCAPE

At three o'clock in the afternoon

On a hot September day,

I began to dream of a highland stream

And a frostbit russet tree;

Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship

(White canvas wet with spray)

And the swirling green and milk-foam clean

Along her canted lee.

I heard the quick staccato click

Of the typist's pounding keys,

And I had to brood of a wind more rude

Than that by a motor fanned—

And I lay inert in a flannel shirt

To watch the rhyming seas

Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl

On a beach of sun-blanched sand.

There is no desk shall tame my lust

For hills and windy skies;

My secret hope of the sea's blue slope

No clerkly task shall dull;

And though I print no echoed hint

Of adventures I devise,

My eyes still pine for the comely line

Of an outbound vessel's hull.

When I elope with an autumn day

And make my green escape,

I'll leave my pen to tamer men

Who have more docile souls;

For forest aisles and office files

Have a very different shape,

And it's hard to woo the ocean blue

In a row of pigeon holes!

My eyes still pine for the comely line
Of an outbound vessel's hull.

VESPER SONG FOR COMMUTERS

(Instead of "Marathon" the commuter may substitute the name of his favorite suburb)

The stars are kind to Marathon,
How low, how close, they lean!
They jostle one another
And do their best to please—
Indeed, they are so neighborly
That in the twilight green
One reaches out to pick them
Behind the poplar trees.

The stars are kind to Marathon,
And one particular
Bright planet (which is Vesper)
Most lucid and serene,
Is waiting by the railway bridge,
The Good Commuter's Star,
The Star of Wise Men coming home
On time, at 6:15!

THE ICE WAGON

I'd like to split the sky that roofs us down,
Break through the crystal lid of upper air,
And tap the cool still reservoirs of heaven.
I'd empty all those unseen lakes of freshness
Down some vast funnel, through our stifled streets.

I'd like to pump away the grit, the dust,
Raw dazzle of the sun on garbage piles,
The droning troops of flies, sharp bitter smells,
And gush that bright sweet flood of unused air
Down every alley where the children gasp.

And then I'd take a fleet of ice wagons—
Big yellow creaking carts, drawn by wet horses,—
And drive them rumbling through the blazing slums.
In every wagon would be blocks of coldness,
Pale, gleaming cubes of ice, all green and silver,
With inner veins and patterns, white and frosty;
Great lumps of chill would drip and steam and shimmer,
And spark like rainbows in their little fractures.

And where my wagons stood there would be puddles,
A wetness and a sparkle and a coolness.
My friends and I would chop and splinter open
The blocks of ice. Bare feet would soon come pattering,
And some would wrap it up in Sunday papers,
And some would stagger home with it in baskets,
And some would be too gay for aught but sucking,
Licking, crunching those fast melting pebbles,
Gulping as they slipped down unexpected—
Laughing to perceive that secret numbness
Amid their small hot persons!

At every stop would be at least one urchin
Would take a piece to cool the sweating horses
And hold it up against their silky noses—
And they would start, and then decide they liked it.

Down all the sun-cursed byways of the town
Our wagons would be trailed by grimy tots,
Their ragged shirts half off them with excitement!
Dabbling toes and fingers in our leakage,
A lucky few up sitting with the driver,
All clambering and stretching grey-pink palms.

And by the time the wagons were all empty
Our arms and shoulders would be lame with chopping,
Our backs and thighs pain-shot, our fingers frozen.
But how we would recall those eager faces,
Red thirsty tongues with ice-chips sliding on them,
The pinched white cheeks, and their pathetic gladness.
Then we would know that arms were made for aching—

I wish to God that I could go tomorrow!

AT A MOVIE THEATRE

How well he spoke who coined the phrase

The picture palace! Aye, in sooth

A palace, where men's weary days

Are crowned with kingliness of youth.

Strange palace! Crowded, airless, dim,

Where toes are trod and strained eyes smart,

We watch a wand of brightness limn

The old heroics of the heart.

Romance again hath us in thrall

And Love is sweet and always true,

And in the darkness of the hall

Hands clasp—as they were meant to do.

Remote from peevish joys and ills

Our souls, pro tem, are purged and free:

We see the sun on western hills,

The crumbling tumult of the sea.

We are the blond that maidens crave,

Well balanced at a dozen banks;

By sleight of hand we haste to save

A brown-eyed life, nor stay for thanks!

Alas, perhaps our instinct feels

Life is not all it might have been,

So we applaud fantastic reels

Of shadow, cast upon a screen!

SONNETS IN A LODGING HOUSE

Each morn she crackles upward, tread by tread,

All apprehensive of some hideous sight:

Perhaps the Fourth Floor Back, who reads in bed,

Forgot his gas and let it burn all night—

The Sweet Young Thing who has the middle room,

She much suspects: for once some ink was spilled,

And then the plumber, in an hour of gloom,

Found all the bathroom pipes with tea-leaves filled.

No League of Nations scheme can make her gay—

She knows the rank duplicity of man;

Some folks expect clean towels every day,

They'll get away with murder if they can!

She tacks a card (alas, few roomers mind it)
Please leave the tub as you would wish to find it!

iii

Men lodgers are the best, the Mrs. said:
They don't use my gas jets to fry sardines,
They don't leave red-hot irons on the spread,
They're out all morning, when a body cleans.
A man ain't so secretive, never cares
What kind of private papers he leaves lay,
So I can get a line on his affairs
And dope out whether he is likely pay.
But women! Say, they surely get my bug!
They stop their keyholes up with chewing gum,
Spill grease, and hide the damage with the rug,
And fry marshmallows when their callers come.
They always are behindhand with their rents—
Take my advice and let your rooms to gents!

A man ain't so secretive, never cares
What kind of private papers he leaves lay—

THE MAN WITH THE HOE (PRESS)

About these roaring cylinders

Where leaping words and paper mate,

A sudden glory moves and stirs—

An inky cataract in spate!

What voice for falsehood or for truth,

What hearts attentive to be stirred—

How dimly understood, in sooth,

The power of the printed word!

These flashing webs and cogs of steel

Have shaken empires, routed kings,

Yet never turn too fast to feel

The tragedies of humble things.

O words, be strict in honesty,

Be just and simple and serene;

O rhymes, sing true, or you will be

Unworthy of this great machine!

DO YOU EVER FEEL LIKE GOD?

Across the court there rises the back wall
Of the Magna Carta Apartments.
The other evening the people in the apartment opposite
Had forgotten to draw their curtains.
I could see them dining: the well-blanched cloth,
The silver and glass, the crystal water jug,
The meat and vegetables; and their clean pink hands
Outstretched in busy gesture.

It was pleasant to watch them, they were so human;
So gay, innocent, unconscious of scrutiny.
They were four: an elderly couple,
A young man, and a girl—with lovely shoulders
Mellow in the glow of the lamp.
They were sitting over coffee, and I could see their hands talking.

At last the older two left the room.
The boy and girl looked at each other....
Like a flash, they leaned and kissed.

Good old human race that keeps on multiplying!
A little later I went down the street to the movies,
And there I saw all four, laughing and joking together.
And as I watched them I felt like God—
Benevolent, all-knowing, and tender.

RAPID TRANSIT

(To Stephen Vincent Benét.)

Climbing is easy and swift on Parnassus!
Knocking my pipe out, I entered a bookshop;
There found a book of verse by a young poet.
Comrades at once, how I saw his mind glowing!
Saw in his soul its magnificent rioting—
Then I ran with him on hills that were windy,
Basked and laughed with him on sun-dazzled beaches,
Glutted myself on his green and blue twilights,
Watched him disposing his planets in patterns,
Tumbling his colors and toys all before him.
I questioned life with him, his pulses my pulses;
Doubted his doubts, too, and grieved for his anguishes.

Salted long kinship and knew him from boy-hood—
Pulled out my own sun and stars from my knapsack,
Trying my trinkets with those of his finding—
And as I left the bookshop
My pipe was still warm in my hand.

CAUGHT IN THE UNDERTOW

Colin, worshipping some frail,

By self-deprecation sways her:

Calls himself unworthy male,

Hardly even fit to praise her.

But this tactic insincere

In the upshot greatly grieves him

When he finds the lovely dear

Quite implicitly believes him.

TO HIS BROWN-EYED MISTRESS

Who Rallied Him for Praising Blue Eyes in His Verses

If sometimes, in a random phrase

(For variation in my ditty),

I chance blue eyes, or gray, to praise

And seem to intimate them pretty—

It is because I do not dare

With too unmixed reiteration

To sing the browner eyes and hair

That are my true intoxication.

Know, then, that I consider brown

For ladies' eyes, the only color;

And deem all other orbs in town

(Compared to yours), opaquer, duller.

I pray, perpend, my dearest dear;

While blue-eyed maids the praise were drinking,

How insubstantial was their cheer—

It was of yours that I was thinking!

PEACE

What is this Peace

That statesmen sign?

How I have sought

To make it mine.

Where groaning cities

Clang and glow

I hunted, hunted,

Peace to know.

And still I saw

Where I passed by

Discarded hearts,—

Heard children cry.

By willowed waters

Brimmed with rain

I thought to capture

Peace again.

I sat me down

My Peace to hoard,

But Beauty pricked me

With a sword.

For in the stillness

Something stirred,

And I was crippled

For a word.

There is no peace

A man can find;

The anguish sits

His heart behind.

The eyes he loves,

The perfect breast,

Too exquisite

To give him rest.

This is his curse

Since brain began.

His penalty

For being man.

May, 1919

SONG, IN DEPRECATION OF PULCHRITUDE

Beauty (so the poets say),

Thou art joy and solace great;

Long ago, and far away

Thou art safe to contemplate,

Beauty. But when now and here,

Visible and close to touch,

All too perilously near,

Thou tormentest us too much!

In a picture, in a song,

In a novel's conjured scenes,

Beauty, that's where you belong,

Where perspective intervenes.

But, my dear, in rosy fact

Your appeal I have to shirk—

You disturb me, and distract

My attention from my work!

MOUNTED POLICE

Watchful, grave, he sits astride his horse,

Draped with his rubber poncho, in the rain;

He speaks the pungent lingo of "The Force,"

And those who try to bluff him, try in vain.

Inured to every mood of fool and crank,

Shrewdly and sternly all the crowd he cons:

The rain drips down his horse's shining flank,

A figure nobly fit for sculptor's bronze.

O knight commander of our city stress,

Little you know how picturesque you are!

We hear you cry to drivers who transgress:

"Say, that's a helva place to park your car!"

Mounted Police.

TO HIS MISTRESS, DEPLORING THAT HE IS NOT AN ELIZABETHAN GALAXY

Why did not Fate to me bequeath an Utterance Elizabethan?
It would have been delight to me
If natus ante 1603.

My stuff would not be soon forgotten
If I could write like Harry Wotton.

I wish that I could wield the pen
Like William Drummond of Hawthornden.

I would not fear the ticking clock
If I were Browne of Tavistock.

For blithe conceits I would not worry
If I were Raleigh, or the Earl of Surrey.

I wish (I hope I am not silly?)
That I could juggle words like Lyly.

I envy many a lyric champion,
I. e., viz., e. g., Thomas Campion.

I creak my rhymes up like a derrick,
I ne'er will be a Robin Herrick.

My wits are dull as an old Barlow—
I wish that I were Christopher Marlowe.

In short, I'd like to be Philip Sidney,
Or some one else of that same kidney.

For if I were, my lady's looks

And all my lyric special pleading

Would be in all the future books,

And called, at college, Required Reading.

THE INTRUDER

As I sat, to sift my dreaming

To the meet and needed word,

Came a merry Interruption

With insistence to be heard.

Smiling stood a maid beside me,

Half alluring and half shy;

Soft the white hint of her bosom—

Escapade was in her eye.

"I must not be so invaded,"

(In an anger then I cried)—

"Can't you see that I am busy?

Tempting creature, stay outside!

"Pearly rascal, I am writing:

I am now composing verse—

Fie on antic invitation:

Wanton, vanish—fly—disperse!

"Baggage, in my godlike moment

What have I to do with thee?"

And she laughed as she departed—

"I am Poetry," said she.

TIT FOR TAT

I often pass a gracious tree

Whose name I can't identify,

But still I bow, in courtesy

It waves a bough, in kind reply.

I do not know your name, O tree

(Are you a hemlock or a pine?)

But why should that embarrass me?

Quite probably you don't know mine.

Courtesy

SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE

I'm glad our house is a little house,

Not too tall nor too wide:

I'm glad the hovering butterflies

Feel free to come inside.

Our little house is a friendly house.

It is not shy or vain;

It gossips with the talking trees,

And makes friends with the rain.

And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green

Against our whited walls,

And in the phlox, the courteous bees

Are paying duty calls.

THE PLUMPUPPETS

When little heads weary have gone to their bed,
When all the good nights and the prayers have been said,
Of all the good fairies that send bairns to rest
The little Plumpuppets are those I love best.

If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,
The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;
They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat—

The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!

The little Plumpuppets are fairies of beds:
They have nothing to do but to watch sleepy heads;
They turn down the sheets and they tuck you in tight,
And they dance on your pillow to wish you good night!

No matter what troubles have bothered the day,
Though your doll broke her arm or the pup ran away;
Though your handies are black with the ink that was spilt—
Plumpuppets are waiting in blanket and quilt.

If your pillow is lumpy, or hot, thin and flat,
The little Plumpuppets know just what they're at;
They plump up the pillow, all soft, cool and fat—

The little Plumpuppets plump-up it!

The Plumpuppets

DANDY DANDELION

When Dandy Dandelion wakes

And combs his yellow hair,

The ant his cup of dewdrop takes

And sets his bed to air;

The worm hides in a quilt of dirt

To keep the thrush away,

The beetle dons his pansy shirt—

They know that it is day!

And caterpillars haste to milk

The cowslips in the grass;

The spider, in his web of silk,

Looks out for flies that pass.

These humble people leap from bed,

They know the night is done:

When Dandy spreads his golden head

They think he is the sun!

Dear Dandy truly does not smell

As sweet as some bouquets;

No florist gathers him to sell,

He withers in a vase;

Yet in the grass he's emperor,

And lord of high renown;

And grateful little folk adore

His bright and shining crown.

THE HIGH CHAIR

Grimly the parent matches wit and will:
Now, Weesy, three more spoons! See Tom the cat,
He'd drink it. You want to be big and fat
Like Daddy, don't you? (Careful now, don't spill!)
Yes, Daddy'll dance, and blow smoke through his nose,
But you must finish first. Come, drink it up—
(Splash!) Oh, you must keep both hands on the cup.
All gone? Now for the prunes....

And so it goes.

This is the battlefield that parents know,
Where one small splinter of old Adam's rib
Withstands an entire household offering spoons.
No use to gnash your teeth. For she will go
Radiant to bed, glossy from crown to bib
With milk and cereal and a surf of prunes.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

Not long ago I fell in love,

But unreturned is my affection—

The girl that I'm enamored of

Pays little heed in my direction.

I thought I knew her fairly well:

In fact, I'd had my arm around her;

And so it's hard to have to tell

How unresponsive I have found her.

For, though she is not frankly rude,

Her manners quite the wrong way rub me:

It seems to me ingratitude

To let me love her—and then snub me!

Though I'm considerate and fond,

She shows no gladness when she spies me—

She gazes off somewhere beyond

And doesn't even recognize me.

Her eyes, so candid, calm and blue,

Seem asking if I can support her

In the style appropriate to

A lady like her father's daughter.

Well, if I can't then no one can—

And let me add that I intend to:

She'll never know another man

So fit for her to be a friend to.

Not love me, eh? She better had!

By Jove, I'll make her love me one day;

For, don't you see, I am her Dad,

And she'll be three weeks old on Sunday!

... It's hard to have to tell
How unresponsive I have found her.

AUTUMN COLORS

The chestnut trees turned yellow,
The oak like sherry browned,
The fir, the stubborn fellow,
Stayed green the whole year round.

But O the bonny maple
How richly he does shine!
He glows against the sunset
Like ruddy old port wine.

THE LAST CRICKET

When the bulb of the moon with white fire fills

And dead leaves crackle under the feet,

When men roll kegs to the cider mills

And chestnuts roast on every street;

When the night sky glows like a hollow shell

Of lustered emerald and pearl,

The kilted cricket knows too well

His doom. His tiny bagpipes skirl.

Quavering under the polished stars

In stubble, thicket, and frosty copse

The cricket blows a few choked bars,

And puts away his pipe—and stops.

TO LOUISE

(A Christmas Baby, Now One Year Old.)

Undaunted by a world of grief
You came upon perplexing days,
And cynics doubt their disbelief
To see the sky-stains in your gaze.

Your sudden and inclusive smile
And your emphatic tears, admit
That you must find this life worth while,
So eagerly you clutch at it!

Your face of triumph says, brave mite,
That life is full of love and luck—
Of blankets to kick off at night,
And two soft rose-pink thumbs to suck.

O loveliest of pioneers
Upon this trail of long surprise,
May all the stages of the years
Show such enchantment in your eyes!

By parents' patient buttonings,
And endless safety pins, you'll grow
To ribbons, garters, hooks and things,
Up to the Ultimate Trousseau—

But never, in your dainty prime,
Will you be more adored by me
Than when you see, this Great First Time,
Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!

December, 1919.

... When you see, this Great First Time,
Lit candles on a Christmas Tree!

CHRISTMAS EVE

Our hearts to-night are open wide,
The grudge, the grief, are laid aside:

The path and porch are swept of snow,
The doors unlatched; the hearthstones glow—

No visitor can be denied.

All tender human homes must hide
Some wistfulness beneath their pride:

Compassionate and humble grow

Our hearts to-night.

Let empty chair and cup abide!
Who knows? Some well-remembered stride

May come as once so long ago—
Then welcome, be it friend or foe!

There is no anger can divide

Our hearts to-night.

EPITAPH ON THE PROOFREADER OF THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA

Majestic tomes, you are the tomb
Of Aristides Edward Bloom,
Who labored, from the world aloof,
In reading every page of proof.

From A to And, from Aus to Bis
Enthusiasm still was his;
From Cal to Cha, from Cha to Con
His soft-lead pencil still went on.

But reaching volume Fra to Gib,
He knew at length that he was sib
To Satan; and he sold his soul
To reach the section Pay to Pol.

Then Pol to Ree, and Shu to Sub
He staggered on, and sought a pub.
And just completing Vet to Zym,
The motor hearse came round for him.

He perished, obstinately brave:
They laid the Index on his grave.

THE MUSIC BOX

At six—long ere the wintry dawn—

There sounded through the silent hall

To where I lay, with blankets drawn

Above my ears, a plaintive call.

The Urchin, in the eagerness

Of three years old, could not refrain;

Awake, he straightway yearned to dress

And frolic with his clockwork train.

I heard him with a sullen shock.

His sister, by her usual plan,

Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock—

I vowed to quench the little man.

I leaned above him, somewhat stern,

And spoke, I fear, with emphasis—

Ah, how much better, parents learn,

To seal one's censure with a kiss!

Again the house was dark and still,

Again I lay in slumber's snare,

When down the hall I heard a trill,

A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air—

His music-box! His best-loved toy,

His crib companion every night;

And now he turned to it for joy

While waiting for the lagging light.

How clear, and how absurdly sad

Those tingling pricks of sound unrolled;

They chirped and quavered, as the lad

His lonely little heart consoled.

Columbia, the Ocean's Gem—

(Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.

He cranked the chimes, admiring them

In vigil gay, without complaint.

The treble music piped and stirred,

The leaping air that was his bliss;

And, as I most contritely heard,

I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!

The needled jets of melody

Rang slowlier and died away—

The Urchin slept; and it was I

Who lay and waited for the day.

The Music Box

TO LUATH

(Robert Burns's Dog)

"Darling Jean" was Jean Armour, a "comely country lass" whom Burns met at a penny wedding at Mauchline. They chanced to be dancing in the same quadrille when the poet's dog sprang to his master and almost upset some of the dancers. Burns remarked that he wished he could get any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.

Some days afterward, Jean, seeing him pass as she was bleaching clothes on the village green, called to him and asked him if he had yet got any of the lasses to like him as well as his dog did.

That was the beginning of an acquaintance that coloured all of Burns's life. —Nathan Haskell Dole.

Well, Luath, man, when you came prancing
All glee to see your Robin dancing,
His partner's muslin gown mischancing

You leaped for joy!

And little guessed what sweet romancing

You caused, my boy!

With happy bark, that moment jolly,
You frisked and frolicked, faithful collie;
His other dog, old melancholy,

Was put to flight—

But what a tale of grief and folly

You wagged that night!

Ah, Luath, tyke, your bonny master
Whose lyric pulse beat ever faster
Each time he saw a lass and passed her

His breast went bang!

In many a woful heart's disaster

He felt the pang!

Poor Robin's heart, forever burning,
Forever roving, ranting, yearning,
From you that heart might have been learning

To be less fickle!

Might have been spared so many a turning

And grievous prickle!

Your collie heart held but one notion—
When Robbie jigged in sprightly motion
You ran to show your own devotion

And gambolled too,

And so that tempest on love's ocean

Was due to you!

Well, it is ower late for preaching
And hearts are aye too hot for teaching!
When Robin with his eye beseeching

By greenside came,

Jeanie—poor lass—forgot her bleaching

And yours the blame!

THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND

I had a friend whose path was pain—

Oppressed by all the cares of earth

Life gave him little chance to drain

His secret cisterns of rich mirth.

His work was hasty, harassed, vexed:

His dreams were laid aside, perforce,

Until—in this world, or the next....

(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)

What funded wealth of tenderness,

What ingots of the heart and mind

He must uneasily repress

Beneath the rasping daily grind.

But now and then, and with my aid,

For fear his soul be wholly lost,

His devoir to the grape he paid

To call soul back, at any cost!

Then, liberate from discipline,

Undrugged by caution and control,

Through all his veins came flooding in

The virtued passion of his soul!

His spirit bared, and felt no shame:

With holy light his eyes would shine—

See Truth her acolyte reclaim

After the second glass of wine!

The self that life had trodden hard

Aspired, was generous and free:

The glowing heart that care had charred

Grew flame, as it was meant to be.

A pox upon the canting lot

Who call the glass the Devil's shape—

A greater pox where'er some sot

Defiles the honor of the grape.

Then look with reverence on wine

That kindles human brains uncouth—

There must be something part divine

In aught that brings us nearer Truth!

So—continently skull your fumes

(Here let our little sermon end)

And bless this X-ray that illumes

The secret bosom of your friend!

A SYMPOSIUM

There was a Russian novelist

Whose name was Solugubrious,

The reading circles took him up,

(They'd heard he was salubrious.)

The women's club of Cripple Creek

Soon held a kind of seminar

To learn just what his message was—

You know what bookworms women are.

The tea went round. After five cups

(You should have seen them bury tea)

Dear Mrs. Brown said what she liked

Was the great man's sincerity.

Sweet Mrs. Jones (how free she was

From all besetting vanity)

Declared that she loved even more

His broad and deep humanity.

Good Mrs. Smith, though she disclaimed

All thought of being critical,

Protested that she found his work

A wee bit analytical.