PS 3525 .P144 L3 1917 Copy 1 THE LAST LOVE AND OTHER VERSES ^9~ LAVENDER DEERFOOT Pass / C ^cX, ^^'^ ./ Book /fl¥^lu GoppghtN" ? COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 7 THE LAST LOVE and OTHER VERSES BY LAVENDER DEERFOOT W vv#v NEW PALTZ, NEW YORK TIMES PUBLISHING COMPANY 19 17 ^^V V ^- coi'VinnHT SiyETKHN HUNDRED SKVESTKKX ItU THOMAS F. MrCAltTHy DEC 10 1917 ©aA47!)487 D ED I C A T I O N To fragrant, living 7neniWies, To love and all its good. To occult hopes and yearnings, ^ To roamitigs through the wood, To evening's golden sunsets, ' To night's sweet dreams, sublhne. To cadences of song birds, 7(7 each far star that gleams — / dedicate this rhyme. CONTENTS THE LAST LOVE \ HOPE 3 LAKE MOHONK 4 AUGUST 6 WOODROW WILSON 7 WHOM WAR REWARDS 8 MY PARTNER 9 THE HUNTERS' MOON 10 SPRL\G II UNDER THE ROUGE 13 THE LIFE OF A YEAR 15 THE FINAL CURTAIN 17 FORGIVENESS IvS TO THE TENTH NEW YORK INFANTRY . 19 DISCOVERY 21 PAN PIPES . . . . 2i TO MY VALENTINE 26 ON BUYING ROSES IN DECEMBER ... 29 WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL . . 30 OCTOBER 31 TO A LETTER BEFORE OPENING THE ENVELOPE 32 NEOLITHIC POETRY 34 LAMENT 35 LINES ON A DARK KNIGHT 37 A SUMMER REVERIE 38 CP.T'ELTY TO ANIMALS 39 THE SIMPLE LIKE 41 MARCH, THE GAY DECEIVER 4-> TWILIGHT 4'i OPERATIC CATS 46 IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE WEATHER . . 47 AUTUMN 49 NON COMPOS MENTUS . 50 THE LAST LOVE There's a useless sort o' beggar Livin' on the mountain side; His clothes are torn and ragged And he seems to have Tip pride. His house is but a shaky hut, That trembles with the wind; His furniture a chair and stool, Of hand made, rough hewn ki-nd. His hair is long and curly And his face, which none have seen, Is covered with a shaggy beard — A sorrow wight, I ween. I happened up that way one day, When June smiled in the skies, To quiz this lo-nesome beggar All about his family ties. I asked him why he lived alone. Why dressed he so uncouth, Why ne'er a razor touched his face, Had e'er he been a youth? I told him of the great big world. With all its joys of livin'; Of brotherhood of man and love, And some of Ghristia,n givin'. 1 lie old man lauglied a joyous laugh, (I knew not he could smile,) "Your world's an empty hole" he said; "While mine's a beauteous pile." "What cares my God how raggedj toi^ The raiment that I wear; What cares He if I ne'er have shorn My head or face of hair?" "lie chides me not wheiias my home Doth dance with every breeze; i\or cares He not if I must eat Beneath His tow'rin' trees. "He only asks that I be kind To birds and bees and flowers; That, though I mi^igle not with men, I love them all the hours." "And so, my friend, the God I love Sees not the things that fade; He cares not how my body's dressed Hnl how my soul's arrayed." I like that ragged beggar and When other friends have fled* ril build myself a mountain hut And love his God instead. li P K The bee to the llower conieth. The sun at dawn to the sea, The moon at eve to the heavens, But never my Love to me! • The hum of the bee is mournful, The sun casts a gloom o'er the sea, The moon is a ghostly spectre— When Love cometh not to me! Yet e'er does the sad sea hope for The balm of the morning sun, And the moon in patience awaiteth The clouds of the night to shun. The bee ne'er tires of seeking. The nectar in some sweet flow'r — And I know that she is coming— Oh, sweet is that promised hour! M O H O N K What needs the soul of man to make it feel The infiTiiteness of eternal peace? A spark of love, mayhap, a love that's real, Or friendship's bands that never know release? Or needs that soul a certain ecstacy Inspired romantic'ly of some sublime Heroic life whose greatness needs must be Anomolous with ravages of Time? My simple soul, to test the great God's powr, Sees not alone His ma-n-reflected light, Nor human loves that oftimes seem to tow'r To wondrous bliss, yet fade within a night. Humanity in man's a ceaseless change. Heroic deeds illumine but a while And giving 'way to greater deeds and strange That Proteus graces each with e'en a smile. Whe^'er my soul its wondrous depth would match With some great thing intuned to its own plane, A linger'ing glimpse of Sky Top it must catch. And Shawangunk's ridge where beauties never wane. And so, whene'er I crave a certain quiet Where no intruding Godless thing may see, I take my soul to Nature, nor deny it Old Mohonk's Lake and all its ecstacy. O, scene of ceaseless change, yet e'er the same, What greater proof of Gods artistic skill Needs man than thou? Thy beauties ever shame The narrow meanesses of Ma-ns cold will. And, Oh, how long thou hast been there. Oh, sce-ae. And yet how long thy future life must be — No name fits thee, unless perchance it be God's wondrous symbol of Eternity. AUGUST There's a smile in every zephyr Thai dances through the trees; There's a laugh in every sunbeam, There's a thrill in every breeze — There's a sigh in every leaflet, There's a tear in every flower, For the smiles of August tell them That death is soon their dower. Yet all the flow'rs and leaflets That droop their heads in tears Know life anew awaits them Whenas the Spri-ng appears. And thus when Love has perished, And Life is chilled by Hate, There comes a Spring that brings us New love, new life, new fate. WOOD ROW WILSON Emerging from the chaos of Uie light For peace and human freedom, thus he stands Tlie hero in his hour. The blowing sands Of petty politics ne'er dim his sight, And knows he well that he who must be right Is chosen from the mass the mass to lead. The millions" destinies within his hands He holds, defying wars in other lands. 'Tis he who doth his country s history write The while he makes it; knows the future's need Lies not with glories in the dead past curled, But that the human brotherhood to last Must spring from out the present's virile seed Into the flower, perennial, of truth. He hast The courage both to serve and lead the world. WHOM WAR REWARDS The price of peace is war. Alas, 'tis true; Yet who attain it, mothers husbandless; The maid, deserted; kings who war pursue? Nay, none of these; not they this peace possess, When war is done. The prize goes to the host That lifeless lies upoii the sun-kisst green; 'Tis they who paid with blood the higher cost; They faced the unsheathed sword's gay glist'ning sheen. And felt its thrust when Duty, falsely dressed, And Honor, ill-advised, made light the pain That ends in death; their souls with rest are blesst — For War rewards with peace whom War has slain. MY PARTNER There's a little half dressed fellow. As small as small can be; His eyes are large, his hair is yellow And hes always foiiowiriii me. 1 meet him on the highways. He greets me on the plai".i. His ways are ever my ways. He s with me sun or rain. "Who is he?" do you wonder? Why, you should know his name — His voice though soft s the thunder Of Love's swift lightning flame. Yet, why should I be sellish, About my constant friend — Though he be queer an.d ellish, You'd love him without end. He's a little half dressed fellow — Dan Cupid, good a-id true; His voice is soft and mi^llow. And he talks of naughl but you. THE HUNTER S' MOON What do they hunt when the Hunters' Moon Doth brighten the earth and the sky? Do they ride to the woods to a hunting tune, To the game dogs' howling cry? Do they frighten the rabbit that he must rua All aimlessly here and there; Do the raccoon's eyes stare into a gun Do the wild birds' shake in their lair? There may be men who do these things When stars, like Dian's shoon, Stick their toes through the white that clings To the sky in the Hunters' Moon. But lovers, like you aTid me, my dear, Hunt not, on nights like these, The woods' wee folks, nor bring a fear To birds in their nesting trees. Yet we hunt, in the Hunters' Moon, We fmd our game in beams; We ride to the woods to a huTiting tune, And hunt Love's golden dreams. 10 SPRING Spring is coming. I hear the rustling of her gown, Her silken scarf just brushed my brow, I heard her smile at Winter's frown. Spring is coming. Her cloth top boots are wet with dew, She breathes the perfume of the rose, She's looking, love, for me and you. Spring is coming. Just now I heard a blue jay tell His love mate that her coming brings An apple-blossom in the dell. Spring is coming. Her golden chariot decked with flow'rs, Approacheth from the eastern sky, Well see her in a few short hours. Spring is coming. Awake! prepare to take her hand, She brings -new life to saddened souls, And scatters hope o'er all the land. Spring is coming. You ask me how I know so much: — She must be coming; how could I Feel in my soul her gentle touch. Spring is coming. '"he holds me in a tiglit embrace, Aiiil bids mo write the usual rhymes That hor arrival e'er must grace. Spring is coming. She held me to her heart so tight, And would not let me go until I promised her these rhymes I'd write. 12 UNDER THE ROUGE I saw her trip across the stage, Before the footlights glare, And all the beauties of the age Were twined around her hair. Her brown eyes sparkled like the light A polished diamond throws; The softness of a moonlit night Transformed was in her pose. I loved her then, my love was strong, I craved to tell her so, I put my sentiment in song, And prayed her love to know. The stage door man took her my card, Tied to a red bouquet, My heart was beating fast and hard — Fd hear what she would say. I saddened when I saw her there. Her painted cheek and all,— And that thick, twining mass of hair- Was hanging on the wall. My heart grew sick, my love song died, My disappointme-nt chilled, 'Twould then have pleased m{< much to hide, Where death all life has stilled. 13 Y».;t, [hen. liow like ilie rest of life Is that by footlights shaded, How often is the thing we love — A painted rose, yet faded. THE LIFE OF A YEAR Now sets the sun upon a dying day Preparing soon to cast a brighter light Upon a newer day. Thus fades away Each year— for Time lets nothi-ng ch^ck it flight. A "dying day'' 1 called this passing year — 'Tis but a day, meseems, since you and I Did bid farewell, mayhap without a tear, To such another year which we saw die. A year is but a day drawn out; its Spring Is nothing but the rising sun at mom. When Day is but a wholesome youthful thing, Inspiring man to life new-born. The years warm Summer's but the noon-day sun That glows its greatest for a little while, Illuminating all; yet ere the day is done The same sun throws on all its twilight smile. What more like Autumn's crimson, ^rown and gold Is Twilights throne upon the sun-Ut West? Doth not the year, near dying, first unfold, Like day at eve, its fairest dress and best? 15 And soon the golden Autumn dies in song To make a place for Winter, when the sun Is distant. This the night so cold and long — Tis thus a year; just like a day, doth run. So let us wipe from out our op'Tiing eyes The moist of sleep, lets brush the dust away And meet the New Year s sun when Old Year dies With life renewed — as on a new-born day. It) T H E F 1 N A L C U R T A I N Oh, what is death to them that know it not— An end to all the works and joys this world Affords; an entrance into such a sad estate, Where hearts are heavy, filled with vain regrets, Or, e'en a change monotonous with never ceasing bliss? I sit and watch the play, portraying things That make this life so real, some happy instances, Experiences of folks fictitious or who really lived The actors in their parts become the while All newer friends of mine— acquaintances— whenas They humanize a story on the stage. Tis thus this life is but a play, as sings Old Avon's bard, and we the actors int. We laugh, we weep, we love we hate, And seldom welcome that an end should come-- Yet, then, as in the playhouse, comes the close When falls the final curtain ending ail- But stop, who can deny a greater play, With newer scenes and scenes more beautiful, And staged by Him, the greater Playwright, then Awaits the audience? And death is, after all, The final curtain of this play on earth, Yet, rising on Eternity's wide stage unfolds An endless drama, played by actors, real And soulful and intuned with all the beauties of eternal life. 17 FORGIVENESS Ah, should a friend of mine turn enemy, And cause me paiii where joy was not to flow, Should fail to speak in friendly terms to me, And daily cause the breach to wider grow — Would 1 return forthwith the thrusts of hate. Seek vengeance in a cruel remark or deed? Or would I curse him to a gruesome fate Or hope his acts his soul to Hell would lead? Ah, no; a friend is "lot so simply lost; No rarer gem there is — akin to love — A gem that's worth the highest human cost, Its lustrous brightness cometh from above. Ah, should a friend of mine turn enemy — No malice would I waste thereon the while Denying me his hospitality— Fd meet his anger with a gentle smile. 18 TO THE TENTH NEW YORK INFANTRY ON LEAVING NEW PALTZ You found us, on a winters eve, A quiet folk, half dreaming-; You found us er(; we learned to grieve O er vvar with all its scheming. It seemed, we thought a cruel fate That m this peaceful valley The tramp of soldiers should berate The wild birds' morning rally. We saw no other world but ours, By Shawangunks tall tops bounded; A world in summer gay with flowers By verdant fields surrounded. We thank you for the broader view You've opened to our vision— To some you've given strength in lieu Of sellish indecision. Weve learned that you are men, as we, With hearts and loves and beauties; But brave enough to dare to see Your country s sacred duties. 19 And now we hope this parting brings To us a firm endeavor, To fight for peace — despite wars stings Forever and forever. You've left us — on a summers day— A dreaming folk awaking To feel we owe to you the way Well face the storm now breaking. August 15, 1917. 20 DISCOVERY I passed a rosebud on the way, And asked if she had seen My own true love, my love so gay, Advancing o'er the green. The rosebud smiled, yet shook her head, In a melancholy way; "She has not passed this way," she said, "Your love so young and gay." I asked a daiicing daffodil If he had seen my love — "She passed not yet yon rippling rill, Nor yon tall hill above." A stately robin I espied, And then methought that he Had seen my love, if she did glide Beneath his castle tree. The robin sang, as robins do, A certain denial — Ah, love, I sighed; you've put me through A seemi-ng endless trial. 21 And while I sighed and wondered why She left not any trace, A beauteous grove I did espy, Which trees and flow'rs did grace. I ran thereto and peeped therein, Full sure Fd find her there; I heard the wild birds merry din, A fragrance fdled the air. My love is resting here, meseems, I sighed in hopeful mood; For of such haunts I know she dreams, She ever seeks the wood. I cast a furtive glance about The green things there agrowing; And felt that if I did but shout She'd come, her cheeks aglowing. Adown the distant corner of The grove I saw there sitting, With flowYs below and flow'rs above, A maid, the scene befitting. She looked a very quee-n to me, Her hair and eyes and lips Were fairer than such things could be — A queen unto her finger' tips. 22 And while I mused and sighed and dreamed Of things Id like to do To win a smile of her who beamed As even fairies do A certain impulse bade me to Approach her golde".i throne — Twas then I learned the queen was you, My love, my very own. Ah, Love, since I have found your realm, Which e'en with heav'n compares, I oiler ail my love as balm To heal your worldly cares. Your king FlI be, your errant knight. Your army and your slave; And jealous beygars shall I light Should they nut here behave. And when at eve the sim shall kiss A good night, gold arrayed, We"ll then enjoy the throbbin? bliss Of loving unafraid. PAN PIPES <"oiiif% Pan. speed up thy pipes, And sing me of the spring — Of how the robin greets the golden morn, With songs of love; Tell me, nympth, how must I match my words To poetize about the beauties of thy wild abode, What subtle phrasing must I make to tell The world how beautiful the meadow lark's Gay, winsome ode to his gay, bashful love: How tantalizing to the ear the noisy chirp The redwing gives when wooing in the trees; Or give me, Pan, some thoughts descriptive of thy trees; Thy fuzzy pussy willows, at their best; How needs must I describe these early flowers of spring We soon shall see on hill and dale; How can we e'en transpose in metered verse How sings the rippling brook while on it rambles Through myriad rocks anrl roots and grasses green. P A N' S R E S P O N S E Now, Lav, you ask a heap ©f me, Whose tools are pipes, not pens. Yet I'd suggest that if thou wouldst be inspired to write Of nature in her spring, take thou a trip among her Trees, muse o'er her brooks, heed well the robin's Song, a-nd gaze upon her mountains looming large Whenas the morning sun doth magnify all beauties. Just take this hint, old Deerfoot. Then, I'll bet a bean Youll not attempt expression of her loveliness In ill-matched phrases, rhyming words, and use- less adjectives. Nature is her own great poet; no human pen has e'er Translated all her beauties. Take the tip from me, old Lav, — It can't be done. m TO MY VALENTINE I love you — You, with eyes that sparkle Like a goblet of wiiie; Whose silken tresses falL Like Niagara's graceful waves, Over the rolling precipice of Your alabaster brow! I love you — You, whose silvery voice Gives warmth to the cool winter air It strikes, and far surpasses The liquid warblings of Summer's sweetest birds! Yea, I love you — Fairest of all the fair, You, whose youthful heart And gay young soul Make light the burdens of the Universe, I love you! And you are all I say you are; To me the sun rises in the lustrous Brilliance of your wistful eye; The moon has not a greater grace ThaTi that which outlines the 26 Delicate contour of your countenance. You are the most beautiful thing The world has ever seen. With all the little quiv'rings of My throbbing heart, With all the eloquence at my command, With all the fervor of a love- ful soul, And with all the hope of One whose love is real, I send you this, my valentine — But, for the love of Mike, What's your -name, And where do you live? ON BUYING ROSES IN DECEMBER Just a rose — A dainty flower, scented and bedeckt In robes of royal red ; no sad negh^ct Is ever known to cause thy scented head To droop in pain; all eyes on thee are fed. Just a rose- All eyes on thee are fed; yea all desires Are summed up in thy perfume, which inspires The souls of men and women to possess Thee — proof sublime of Nature's loveliness. Just a rose — One most desired by men and women ail. Though I consider thee a thing so small As to rest on my coat's lapel, I'm lost Whenas my florist tells me of thy cost. » WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL Nature has painted the beautiful leaves A beautiful color of brown; Yet, Oh, how my sensitive soul sadly grieves To see all those leaves falling down. The tree looks so sad when hes stripped of his coat, That gold colored coat wrapped around; Naked he stands, while o'er the lawn floats His leaves with their rustling sound. I love the brown leaves, and their shade make me glad; I write of their beauty with ease; But raking them up on the lawn makes me mad-- I wish they would stay on the trees. 30 O C T O B E R Wlial makes tin? air so mild and sweet, The trtnvs so browi, the golden corn More golden, and the folks we meet So gay and seemiiy new-born? \\'hal makes the sunset's sky so bright. How comes it by its colored gown? Why sings the katy-did at night, Where is the farmer's erstwhile frown? All things have changed; what makes them thus? The world seems dift'rent — yet Fm sober. Oh, now I know — forgive this fuss — 'Tis hut our annual October. ;m rO A LETTER BEFORE OPENING THE ENVELOPE I hold thee in an anxious hand, The while with joyful mind I ponder o'er thy contents — grand, Mayhap, or most unkind. Yet, gay expectancy doth hint That joy thou dost contain; Wilt thou inspire a noble stint, A sweet, age-long refrain? Hast thou a message that imparts That I shall wealth inherit? Or dost thou speak of love and hearts, Or faith that love must merit? Thine envelope invites my gaze, The hand that wrote my name Thereon, is worth my praise — A maidens hand, mine own doth shame. She kissed that stamp that brought thee here And with another kiss she sealed Thee safe inside, that none may peer At thee — great unrevealed. 32 What has she now to say to me? Doubts she I love her still? Or does she call me, anxiously, To her— for go I will. But hold, I must no longer dream Oer thine unknown contents: ril open thee, een though it seem A vulgar hand's offense. I broke the seal and found therein A sheet of paper, blue; ATid this I read — my head doth spin: "Your rent is over due." 33 NEOLITHIC POETRY Ten thousand years ago. Had 1 lived then And sought to please you as Fm trying now By stringing verse, I'd need no golden pen Wherewith to write this stuff, for then somehow Each bard did wield a chisel, sharp as steel, Which, backed up by a heavy hanvmer, he Did use to carve out verse to earn bis meal — E'en early bards bought meals with poetry. Ten thousand years ago. It seems sometimes That 'twere a noble calling, chisel armed, To sit before a boulder cutting rhymes. The rhymster's deep impressions jmusi have charmed His friends who stood around and watched him cut. No talk was th^re of ''Has he got the punch?" No fear had he of woven baskets, but He had to cut the stone to earn his lu"ich. Yet, hard as it may seem, I think that I Could fmd contentment chiselling a song Into a rock; for often do 1 sigh To think how quickly fades this ink; not long The memory remains of what I write. And, maybe, if I used a blade of steel Wheiias I poetry like this indite Twould make my wits more sharp — and earn a meal. 34 LAMENT Bespeak me, Muse with the golden hair, A soulful flight thru th' anabient air; A trip to the moon, On a da>' in June, Or take me, Muse — oh.anywhere. I'd like to live in a Swiss chalet, And dream love dreams the live-long day; Those Alpine hauts, Would hear my shouts To thee. Oh, Muse, if shout I may. "Auch Ich war in Arkadie geborren," So Muse come blow your silver horn, I live on rhyme. And bide my time Till thee I meet on a summer's morn. I love this town, its old Francais Carrieth my soulful soul away; But, sweet-voiced Muse, I get the blues, When on thy golden harp I p'ay. 35 For this one saith my verse is punk, Another says, "Tis like a hunk Of cheese, decade-nt, Or mud, so radient, When rolled into a dampish chunk. But I should worry, Muse, if all Who read my rhymes taste naught but gall, Whitman, Browning, Poe, The whole long list, you know, Cared naught about the rabbles bawl. And so I write and write and write Unpoetic poerns that bite Their taste's aesthetic, (Tis most pathetic) — Yet hope, sweet Muse, to see thy light. 36 LINES OM A DARK KNIGHT Oh, would I were a knight and bold, Accoutred for the fray, And things were as they were of old, When knights at arms did play. I'd search me out a winsopie dame. And pledge herto my heart; Then off Td speed with eyes aflame, And prove my knightly art. And when Fve slain a million knights, And spoiled their knightly ire, I'd speed me back to Loves Delights, And claim my heart's desire. And if the damsel failed, forsooth, To love me as she ought, rd eat her where she stood, in truth, To soothe my knightly wroth. So love, I hope you'll cease to try To live as folks of old; And thank your lucky stars thati Am not a kiiight so bold. 37 A SUMMER REVERY The quintessence of morn's young sun, The last soft glow when day is done, The pale blue light of rising moon. Of starry sky that, tent-like, soon Spreads o'er the earth, when Man doth lie Down to his rest with good-night sigh; Or next gray morn when showers fall To wet the woods and roads and all, And feed with sweet ambrosial wine The vilet and the eglantine: Or lonely hours of solitude When oft my soul with accents rude Doth speak of how my heart strings hung The God of Love, when passion young — Thus while I sum a million joys, Including care-free lives of boys, I wonder why, with life so sweet. The world still groans about the heat. 36 CRUELTY TO ANIMA.LS Do I believe that fairies Still sail the summer breeze, That good Titiania tarries Aloft within the trees? Of course, I do, moreover, I see them every day; For scores of them do hover Along the broad highwav. You'd know one in a moment, Once you caught her eye; A glance therof would foment In you an ecstacy. I met an nymph one eve Who filled my soul with bliss, That I with her would leave So cold a world as this. She smiled upon me sweetly, She teased me with her eyes, She won my heart completely— Yes, taken by surprise. 39 And I returned the favor, I said, in my complacence, I liked her sweet behavior On such a short acquaintaiice. When I my heart would chance it To the fairy of this pome, My wife said — nymph, sic transit "Come, dear; now let's go home. 40 THE SIMPLE LIFE I know a lovers' talc which I Shall now unfold lo you: A tale of love without a sigh. Yet it is over true. No villian haunts this little tale, It isn't in that clas:^; The hero's but a simple male Who loves a simple lasjs. This simple maid is happy for She loves this simple wight; Alo-ne she thinks his love vows o'er, She dreams of him at night. His love for her is greater than The greatest loves of old. (Forsooth, no other rhyming man A simpler love tale told.) Yet that is all I've got to tell, My tale is near its close; [I do not think this tale will sell, 'Tis lighter than the snows.) 41 But I am sure youVl like to know Who are these lovers two; Who is the youth with heart aglow, And who the maid so true. Oh, he is but a simple male, And she a simple lass, For lovers all, just like this tale, Are in the simple class. 42 MARCH, THE GAY DEGIEVER A little blue bird perched upon a bow Twittered to my list 'ning ear His little melody — I felt somehow^ That spring would soo-n be here. A blade of grass peeped forth this morn And seem exultant once again to see The sun which gave it life new born — Another sign bespeaking spring to me. And now today upo-n her tresses dark, My love was balancing a straw affair; Forsooth, my housedog has a merry bark; I'm sure he feels that spring is in the air. And thus at night retiring to my sleep, I felt the morn would other spring signs show; But then, on waking, saw I at a peep — The grouind all covered with a sheet of snow. 43 TWILIGHT What did I see When the sun went down, And the sky was so red And the mountains so brown? I saw nothing else But the sky, bathed in red, And the mountai'as so bold, And the sun gone to bed. But MY SOUL saw a scene, Of wonderful things, That nothing but God And the love of him brings. It saw, did my soul, On the rift of a cloud A beautiful maiden That beckoned aloud. A*id she said to my soul, "Gome, Spirit, with me, ril take you, I promise, To far Arcady." u And my soul put on wings, And flew far away; The fairies it saw, And the lovers at play. And while it was sailing Thru infinite space The sun o'er the mountains Had gone down apace. The beautiful maiden Who borrowed my soul Flew awaj'' on a star, And leaving me dole But alas, what care I, If my soul thus meanders, Where fairies for horses Use gold winged ganders. For just as the maiden Referred to above. Flew away on that star Like a circus-trained dove, I heard in the distance When as the sun fell, The soul-stirring tinkle Of the suppertime bell. 45 OPERATIC CATS A man may in a thousand humble ways Show that he has a heart for every fate, Yet he who toils with vigor all his days Has no respect for cats that stay up late. I have a tender heart — these lines attest — Still I am OTie who likes a little sleep; So why, I ask, should human souls be blesst With cats that sing while in the dark they creep? A cat may be a useful little beast, For it has such a scientific way Of nabbing mice which on our victuals feast. Yet it should do its singing while 'tis day. For sociability a cat's a trump, Its frank democracy we all esteem; But when each cat at night goes on a stump It eloquently spoils some human dream. I know about these things of which I write, For I have had the singing company Of several thousand cats a single night And each one seemed to be upon a spree. I have so nmch dislike for yellmg cats To chastise them I entertain no fear. So that's the reason why their mid-night chats 1 put in rhyme — a punishment severe. 46 IT ALL DEPENDS UPON THE WEATHER Oh, for the Hfe of the gypsy, To wander at will o'er the land; With never a sorrow or worry — A gypsy so care-free and tanned. Id sing to the God of Creation. (Were I but a gypsy and free) A song filled with wildest elation (That is, if, He'd listen to me.) And being a gypsy and wand'ring At will o'er the fields and the woods> Fd laugh at the high cost of living — For Nature delivers the goods. Yet, ere I began my crusadin', (That is, as a gypsy, you know) Id corral a wee, winsome maiden, And make her a real gypsy beau. And rhymes I would pluck from the flowers, An epic Fd slice from the dew; And these would my love serve at luncheon— A veritable gypsical stew. 47 We'd sip from the elover its honey (That is, when we've learned how 'tis done) We'd never need hanker for money, And clothes la Poiret we would shun. Oh, .for the life of a gypsy, To wander at will o'er the land — Where's the maid who is willing to wander And live the free life I have planned? Yet, girlie, while thinking it over, In thoughts more prosaic and plain, My gj^psical wanderings would oft be Postponed on account of the rain. m AUTUMN Oh, what of the dawnmg, its sombersome grey? And what of the sunset, its gold — bright and gay? Yes, what of the moonlight, its silv'ry white beams? Then what of the starlight, which twinkles and gleams? Oh, what of them all, these heavenly things? Oh, what shall my song be, its melody rings? The sombersome grey of the morning's first dawn Should harmo-nize sweetly with some sleeper's yawn ; The gold, bright and gay, of the sunset I'll rhyme With dinner, the sunset bespeaks of that time; The silvry white beams of the autumn moonlight Rhymes well with the cats on the back fence at night; The twinkles and gleams of a star in the sky I can't fmd a rhyme for— I cant reach so high. 40 NON COMPOS MENTUS Do you know what I would do Were I possessed of that gift Called poetic, and could string Rhymes sans reason, rhythm With a swing thereto — Could stretch my arm into the infinite And pluck therefrom a passing glance Of what will be my soul's sure fate Forever and forever — Gould I with eyes of Swinburne, Byron, Shelley, Noyes, Tennyson, Or even those of Horace, satiric, See fairies in the tall poplar tree Whose roots are raising the dickens with Our sewer pipes in the back yard — Or could I translate the robin's morning Song, the blue jay's shrill nocturne Or transcribe the certain feli-ngf Gay and solemn, various colors have Upon my friends — like the unhealthy Effect a dart of red hath upon a Roaring bull — Or if mine eyes had in them that peculair Gift that enables bards to see (as plain As the nose on your face,) Aurora a-ud her Golden chariot (some call it a Ford) -'^ 50 Ascending the ^asterri heavens on high (and With the cut out open) whenas the Soul stirring sun bestirs the lazy- Worker in his comfortable bed of hay — Ah, friends, had I the gifts (poetic I Repeat,) to see and do these things — What would I do?— Why, bless my soul, Fd consult A brain specialist. 51