The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 51

The Home Book of Verse -

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V.--(Browning) Tut! Bah! We take as another case-- Pa.s.s the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)--so perhaps you'll Excuse the digression--this cup which I hold Light-poised--Bah, it's spilt in the bed--well, let's on go-- Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo?

VI.--(Wordsworth) "Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream?

Now tell the truth to me."

She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, "Sir, please put in A little drop of milk."

"Why, what put milk into your head?

'Tis cream my cows supply;"

And five times to the child I said, "Why, pig-head, tell me, why?"

"You call me pig-head," she replied; "My proper name is Ruth.

I called that milk"--she blushed with pride-- "You bade me speak the truth."

VII.--(Poe) Here's a mellow cup of tea--golden tea!

What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me!

Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells!

How it smells!

Keeping tune, tune, tune, To the tintinnabulation of the spoon.

And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavor Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n-th.

VIII.--(Rossetti) The lilies lie in my lady's bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now--you understand!

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost).

IX.--(Burns) Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, Whusky or tay--to state my mind Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, And gin the next, I'm dull as you: Mix a' thegither.

X.--(Walt Whitman) One cup for my self-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you've done with it.

What b.u.t.ter-colored hair you've got. I don't want to be personal.

All right, then, you needn't. You're a stale-cadaver.

Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned.

Allons, from all bat-eyed formulas.

Barry Pain [1864-1928]


Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now birdlike pipes, now closes soft in sleep; And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That gra.s.s is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times, Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst; At other times-good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the A, B, C, Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

James Kenneth Stephen [1859-1892]

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