Dear little house, dear shabby street,
Dear books and beds and food to eat!
How feeble words are to express
The 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 leans
Along that little street in Queens!

Let these poor rhymes abide for proof
Joy dwells beneath a humble roof;
Heaven is not built of country seats
But little queer suburban streets!

March, 1917.

This is a sacrament, I think! As blue as lupin gleams the ink;
That small dark cistern may afford And with this ink I have just poured

This hearth was built for thy delight, For thee the largest chair, at night,
For thee, dear lass, the match was lit May Jack Frost give us joy of it

To make this house my very own
Could not be done by law alone.
Though covenant and deed convey
Absolute fee, as lawyers say,
There are domestic rites beside
By which this house is sanctified.

By kindled fire upon the hearth,
By planted pansies in the garth,
By food, and by the quiet rest
Of 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 abed
I trail about my quiet stead
A wreath of blue tobacco smoke
(A charm that evil never broke)
And bring my ritual to an end
By giving shelter to a friend.

These done, O dwelling, you become
Not just a house, but truly Home!

It was the House of Quietness The garth was lit with roses
The tremulous tall poplar trees The gentle flicker of their plumes
And as I wondered at the door The Lady of Sweet Silences

Down-slipping Time, sweet, swift, and shallow stream,
Here, like a boulder, lies this afternoon
Across your eager flow. So you shall stay,
Deepened and dammed, to let me breathe and be.
Your troubled fluency, your running gleam
Shall pause, and circle idly, still and clear:
The while I lie and search your glassy pool
Where, gently coiling in their lazy round,
Unseparable minutes drift and swim,
Eddy and rise and brim. And I will see
How many crystal bubbles of slack Time
The mind can hold and cherish in one Now!

Now, for one conscious vacancy of sense,
The stream is gathered in a deepening pond,
Not a mere moving mirror. Through the sharp
Correct reflection of the standing scene
The 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 unease
As when a sonnet flashes on the mind,
Trembles and burns an instant, and is gone.

Truth is enough for prose:
Calmly it goes
To tell just what it knows.

For verse, skill will suffice—
Delicate, nice
Casting of verbal dice.

Poetry, men attain
By subtler pain
More flagrant in the brain—

An honesty unfeigned,
A heart unchained,
A madness well restrained.

It should be yours, if I could build
The quaint old dwelling I desire,
With books and pictures bravely filled
And 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 lavender
And mignonette and fever-few,
And Judas-tree and maidenhair
And candytuft and thyme and rue—
All these for you to wander in.

A Chinese carp (called Mandarin)
Waving a sluggish silver fin
Deep in the moat: so tame he comes
To lip your fingers offering crumbs.
Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,
White shutters, ivy green and thick,
And walls of ruddy Tudor brick
Grown mellow with the passing years.

And windows with small leaded panes,
Broad window-seats for when it rains;
A big blue bowl of pot pourri
And—yes, a Spanish chestnut tree
To 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 wood
Cut in the days of Robin Hood,
And banisters worn smooth as glass
Down which your hand will lightly pass;
A piano with pale yellow keys
For wistful twilight melodies,
And dusty bottles in a bin—
All these for you to revel in!

But when? Ah well, until that time
We'll habit in this house of rhyme.
1912

When I a householder became

I thought I'd call it "Poplar Trees,"
Or "Widdershins" or "Velvet Bees," I thought of "House Where Plumbings Freeze,"
Or "As You Like it," "If You Please,"
Or "Nicotine" or "Bread and Cheese,"
But still I sought some subtle charm,
Some rune to guard my roof from harm I thought of this, and I was saved!
I had my letter-heads engraved

Do you remember, Heart's Desire, The newly dedicated fire,
How anxiously we swept the bricks And then the blaze enwrapped the sticks
We could not speak, but only gaze, Our home, our hearth, our golden blaze,
And then a thought occurred to me— And looked up at the roof, to see
And of all man's felicities Is when, for the first time, he sees

If I should tell, unstinted, All future lads would whisper If I made public tumult Posterity would grumble
I will not frame your beauty Nor blaze it as a legend For why should future lovers Deluded, let them fancy

Dear sweet, when dusk comes up the hill, I place along the chimneysill

And though unsteadily they burn, Like candles they will surely learn

There is a secret laughter And though I go about my work
As humble as can be,
There is no prince or prelate No evil can befall me—

He is so small, he does not know
The 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.

O wood, burn bright; O flame, be quick;
O smoke, draw cleanly up the flue—
My lady chose your every brick
And 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 complete
By love, to lay the sooty ghost.

And then, dear books, dear waiting chairs,
Dear china and mahogany,
Draw close, for on the happy stairs
My brown-eyed girl comes down for tea!

My pipe is old
And caked with soot;
My wife remarks:
"How can you put
That horrid relic,
So unclean,
Inside your mouth?
The nicotine
Is strong enough
To stupefy
A Swedish plumber."
I reply:

"This is the kind
Of pipe I like:
I fill it full
Of Happy Strike,
Or Barking Cat
Or Cabman's Puff,
Or Brooklyn Bridge
(That potent stuff)
Or Chaste Embraces,
Knacker's Twist,
Old Honeycomb
Or Niggerfist.

I clamp my teeth
Upon its stem—
It is my bliss,
My diadem.
Whatever Fate
May do to me,
This is my favorite
B B.
For this dear pipe
You feign to scorn
I smoked the night
The boy was born."

Lilac, violet, and rose
Ardently the city glows;
Sunset glory, purely sweet,
Gilds the dreaming byway-street,
And, above the Avenue,
Winter dusk is deepening blue.


Hark, adown the canyon street
Flows the merry tide of feet;
High the golden buildings loom
Blazing in the purple gloom;
All the town is set with stars,
Homeward chant the Broadway cars!

Then (how long it seems) at last
All 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 renewed
The conjoined beatitude.

"The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan—the original of Peter Pan—has died in battle."

And Peter Pan is dead? Not so!
When mothers turn the lights down low
And 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 man
He grows, he still is Peter Pan.

And mothers' ways are often queer:
They pause in doorways, just to hear
A 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 stirred
By clink of plate or flight of bird,
He has a plumy tail;
At night he treads on stealthy pad
As merry as Sir Galahad
A-seeking of the Grail.

His amiable amber eyes
Are 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!

Her mind is like her cedar chest
Wherein in quietness do rest
The wistful dreamings of her heart
In fragrant folds all laid apart.

There, put away in sprigs of rhyme
Until her life's full blossom-time,
Flutter (like tremulous little birds)
Her small and sweet maternal words.

Once we read Tennyson aloud
Between the lines, my lips could touch

How very fond I was, to think
When close within my arms I held

Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.

What do you choose 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 that I love 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 see
The 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 I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said, he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!

Early in 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 dairy man and 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.

At night the gas lamps light our street,
The gas is billed in cubic feet,

But one illumination still
It is not figured in a bill,

More bright than lights that money buys,
The shining lamps of Helen's eyes,

At night I opened
The warm glow brightened

The fire that sparkled
Kept small toes cosy

As up the stair
I said my prayer:

When we on simple rations sup
How easy is the washing up!
But heavy feeding complicates
The task by soiling many plates.

And though I grant that I have prayed
That 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 hot
I 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 life
Has washed the dishes with his wife
Or polished up the silver plate—
He still is largely celibate.

One warning: there is certain ware
That must be handled with all care:
The Lord Himself will give you up
If you should drop a willow cup!

As I went by the church to-day
And goodly folk were on their knees,

My minster hath a roof more vast:
My altar-cloth is on the hills,

I see my rood upon the clouds,
My crystal windows, heaven-glazed,

The stars, the thunder, and the rain,
These are His pulpit and His pew,

The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam,
And at this price, indeed it does not seem

Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;
How ill avail, on such a frosty night,

Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:

Can Morris-chair or papier-mâché bust
Chop up the grand piano if you must,

Full many a can of purest kerosene
Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean

I often wander on the beach
Where once, so brown of limb,
The biting air, the roaring surf
Summoned me to swim.

I see my old abundant youth
Where combers lean and spill,
And though I taste the foam no more
Other swimmers will.

Oh, good exultant strength to meet
The arching wall of green,
To break the crystal, swirl, emerge
Dripping, taut, and clean.

To climb the moving hilly blue,
To dive in ecstasy
And feel the salty chill embrace
Arm and rib and knee.

What brave and vanished laughter then
And tingling thighs to run,
What warm and comfortable sands
Dreaming in the sun.

The crumbling water spreads in snow,
The surf is hissing still,
And though I kiss the salt no more
Other swimmers will.

The moon 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 air
We are surprised to see her there,
Grazing in her woolly white,
Waiting the return of night.

When dusk lets down the meadow bars
She greets again her lambs, the stars!

Why is it that the poets tell
So 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 September
Breathe most sweet; and I remember
Many 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!

My Daddy smells like tobacco and books,
Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars,

Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own
But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all—

She smells exactly like hot buttered toast!

I like the 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 collars
In his steamy little shop,
Observe how tight his pigtail
Is coiled and piled on top.
But late at night he lets it hang
And thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.

On Saturdays, after the baby
His mother, as quickly as may be,
She rapidly makes herself pretty
Then gaily she starts for the city,

She trips through the crowd at the station,
And keeping her eyes from temptation,
She is off for the Weekly Adventure;
She says, "Never mind, when you've spent your

Apart, in her thrifty exchequer,
Enough for the butcher and baker,
But the rest of her brave little treasure
What a richness of innocent pleasure

But either by giving or buying,
Perhaps it's a ragged child crying,
And the bonny brown eyes that were brightened
Look up at me, wistful and frightened,

The wisest of all financiering
By some little known profiteering
And, husband, if you would be learning
Invest the great part of your earning

I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face,
And yet some echo of her woman's grace

I have no picture of her lovelihood,
But that she is both beautiful and good

In all that my friend thinks and says, I see
His thought of her is gentle; she must be

In all his grief or laughter, work or play,
How brave and tender, day by common day,

Therefore I say I know her, be her face>
For when he shows his heart's most secret place

Who is the man on Chestnut street
I see him with his airy freight
A peddler of such lovely goods!
His mass of bubbles, red and green

For sure that noble peddler man
His toys that float and swim in air
Perhaps he is a changeling prince
To tempt us solemn busy folk

Beware, oh, valiant merchantman,
Lest some day come some realist,

A puritan efficientist
He'll stalk thee madly from behind

To use my books all friends are bid:
And in each one, as Grolier did,

All lovely things in truth belong
The house, the picture and the song

Perhaps this book holds precious lore,
If you appreciate it more

How many humble hearts have dipped
In 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.

I sought immortality
I sent my rockets
I gave my name
I dined a critic

I spurned the weariness
Denied fatigue
If men knew all,
I even planned

And then one night
I heard the nursery

I heard the tender
Over a crib, and

Then in a flash
That there was my

The barren music of a word or phrase,
He sought. The poetry of common days

The simplest, sweetest rhythms life affords—
The tender themes that underlie all words—

The human cadence and the subtle chime
He knew not. Artist merely in his rhyme,