Chapter IV

I knew a 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 sneer
That 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 tub
He'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 sore
And he'll never come bathing with me any more.

THE TWINS

Con was a thorn to brother Pro--
On Pro we often sicked him:
Whatever Pro would claim to know
Old Con would contradict him!

A PRINTER'S MADRIGAL

(_Extremely technical_)

I'd like to have you meet my wife!
I simply cannot keep from hinting
I've never seen, in all my life,
So fine a specimen of printing.

Her type is not some =bold-face= font,
Set solid. Nay! And I will say out
That no typographer could want
To see a better balanced layout.

A nice proportion of white space
There is for brown eyes to look large in,
And not a feature in her face
Comes anywhere too near the margin.

Locked up with all her sweet display
Her form will never pi. She's like a
Corrected proof marked _stet, O. K._--
And yet she loves me, fatface =Pica!=

She has a fine one-column head,
And like a comma curves each eyebrow--
Her forehead has an extra lead
Which makes her seem a trifle highbrow.

Her nose, _italicized brevier_,
Too lovely to describe by penpoint;
Her mouth is set in _pearl_: her ear
And chin are comely Caslon ten-point.

Her cheeks (a pink parenthesis)
Make my pulse beat 14-em measure,
And such typography as this
Would make =De Vinne= scream with pleasure.

And so, of all typefounder chaps
Her father's best, in my opinion;
She is my NONPAREIL (IN CAPS)
And I (in lower case) her _minion_.

I hope you will not stand aloof
Because my metaphors are shoppy;
Of her devotion I've a proof--
I tell the urchin, _Follow Copy_!

THE POET ON THE HEARTH

When fire is kindled on the dogs,
But still the stubborn oak delays,
Small embers laid above the logs
Will draw them into sudden blaze.

Just so the minor poet's part:
(A greater he need not desire)
The charcoals of his burning heart
May light some Master into fire!

O PRAISE ME NOT THE COUNTRY

O praise me 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 paving
For me, a city fool!

O praise me not the leisure
Of 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 thunder
Of the Elevated cars!

A STONE IN ST. PAUL'S GRAVEYARD

(New York)

_Here Lyes the Body of_
_Iohn Jones the Son of_
_Iohn Jones Who Departed_
_This Life December the 13_
_1768 Aged 4 Years & 4 Months & 2 Days_

Here, where enormous shadows creep,
He casts his childish shadow too:
How small he seems, beneath the steep
Great 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 climb
Our heartbreaks are but little things
In the equality of Time.
The sum of life, for all men's stones:
He was John Jones, son of John Jones.

THE MADONNA OF THE CURB

On the curb of a city pavement,
By the ash and garbage cans,
In the stench and rolling thunder
Of motor trucks and vans,
There sits my little lady,
With brave but troubled eyes,
And in her arms a baby
That cries and cries and cries.

She cannot be more than seven;
But years go fast in the slums,
And hard on the pains of winter
The pitiless summer comes.
The wail of sickly children
She knows; she understands
The 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 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 dearer
Than the perfect robe of a queen!
Poor little lass, who knows not
The blessing of being clean.
And when you are giving millions
To Belgian, Pole and Serb,
Remember my pitiful lady--
Madonna of the Curb!

_The wail of sickly children_
_She knows; she understands_
_The pangs of puny bodies,_
_The clutch of small hot hands._]

THE ISLAND

_A song for England?_
_Nay, what is a song for England?_

Our hearts go by green-cliffed Kinsale
Among the gulls' white wings,
Or where, on Kentish forelands pale
The lighthouse beacon swings:
Our hearts go up the Mersey's tide,
Come in on Suffolk foam--
The blood that will not be denied
Moves fast, and calls us home!

Our hearts now walk a secret round
On many a Cotswold hill,
For we are mixed of island ground,
The island draws us still:
Our hearts may pace a windy turn
Where Sussex downs are high,
Or watch the lights of London burn,
A bonfire in the sky!

What is the virtue of that soil
That flings her strength so wide?
Her ancient courage, patient toil,
Her stubborn wordless pride?
A little land, yet loved therein
As 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 Jack
Across some deep-sea lane;
Though all the world be of rich cost
And marvellous with worth,
Yet if that island ground were lost
How empty were the earth!

_A song for England?_
_Lo, every word we speak's a song for England._

SUNDAY NIGHT

Two grave brown eyes, severely bent
Upon a memorandum book--
A sparkling face, on which are blent
A hopeful and a pensive look;
A pencil, purse, and book of checks
With 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 there
The while she calculates and plans;
What's this? A faintly pensive frown
Upon her forehead gathers now--
Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--
Beget that shadow on her brow?

A murrain on the tradesman churl
Who caused this fair accountant's gloom!
Just then--a baby's cry--my girl
Arose and swiftly left the room.
Then in her purse by stratagem
I thrust some bills of small amounts--
She'll think she had forgotten them,
And smile again at her accounts!

_Ah, does the butcher--heartless clown--_
_Beget that shadow on her brow?_]

ENGLAND, JULY 1913

To Rupert Brooke

O England, England ... that July
How placidly the days went by!

Two years ago (how long it seems)
In that dear England of my dreams
I loved and smoked and laughed amain
And rode to Cambridge in the rain.
A careless godlike life was there!
To spin the roads with _Shotover_,
To dream while punting on the Cam,
To lie, and never give a damn
For anything but comradeship
And books to read and ale to sip,
And shandygaff at every inn
When _The Gorilla_ rode to Lynn!
O world of wheel and pipe and oar
In those old days before the War.

O poignant echoes of that time!
I hear the Oxford towers chime,
The throbbing of those mellow bells
And all the sweet old English smells--

The Deben water, quick with salt,
The Woodbridge brew-house and the malt;
The Suffolk villages, serene
With lads at cricket on the green,
And Wytham strawberries, so ripe,
And _Murray's Mixture_ in my pipe!

In those dear days, in those dear days,
All pleasant lay the country ways;
The echoes of our stalwart mirth
Went echoing wide around the earth
And in an endless bliss of sun
We lay and watched the river run.
And you by Cam and I by Isis
Were happy with our own devices.

Ah, can we ever know again
Such 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 see
The life we led at twenty-three.
Never again, perhaps, shall I
Go flashing bravely down the High
To see, in that transcendent hour,
The sunset glow on Magdalen Tower.

Dear Rupert Brooke, your words recall
Those endless afternoons, and all
Your Cambridge--which I loved as one
Who was her grandson, not her son.
O ripples where the river slacks
In greening eddies round the "backs";
Where men have dreamed such gallant things
Under the old stone bridge at _King's_.
Or leaned to feed the silver swans
By the tennis meads at _John's_.
O Granta's water, cold and fresh,
Kissing the warm and eager flesh
Under the willow's breathing stir--
The bathing pool at _Grantchester_....
What words can tell, what words can praise
The burly savor of those days!

Dear singing lad, those days are dead
And gone for aye your golden head;
And many other well-loved men
Will never dine in Hall again.
I too have lived remembered hours
In Cambridge; heard the summer showers
Make music on old _Heffer's_ pane
While I was reading Pepys or Taine.
Through _Trumpington_ and _Grantchester_

I used to roll on _Shotover_;
At _Hauxton Bridge_ my lamp would light
And sleep in _Royston_ for the night.
Or to _Five Miles from Anywhere_
I used to scull; and sit and swear
While wasps attacked my bread and jam
Those summer evenings on the Cam.
(O crispy English cottage-loaves
Baked in ovens, not in stoves!
O white unsalted English butter
O satisfaction none can utter!)...

To think that while those joys I knew
In Cambridge, I did not know you.

July, 1915.

CASUALTY

A well-sharp'd pencil 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 steep
Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.

A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL

O noble gracious English tongue
Whose fibers we so sadly twist,
For caitiff measures he has sung
Have 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 art
Save in straightforward Saxon speech.

Yet not in ignorance or spite,
Nor with Thy noble past forgot
We sinned: indeed we had to write
To keep a fire beneath the pot.

Then grant that in the coming time,
With inky hand and polished sleeve,
In lucid prose or honest rhyme
Some 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.

PRELIMINARY INSTRUCTIONS FOR A
FUNERAL SERVICE: BEING A
POEM IN FOUR STANZAS

Say this poor fool misfeatured all his days,
And could not mend his ways;
And say he trod
Most heavily upon the corns of God.

But also say that in his clabbered brain
There was the essential pain--
The idiot's vow
To tell his troubled Truth, no matter how.

Unhappy fool, you say, with pitiful air:
Who was he, then, and where?
Ah, you divine
He lives in your heart, as he lives in mine.