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Palleth upon my soul the jest, Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest, And everything is flat and trite.
There's nothing humorous in sight; Don't mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight When woods are but a week away.
Woods in the robes of summer dressed-- In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river's breast, Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...
This end the Voyage of Delight Waits, in a little wood-bound bay, A bark canoe, all trim and tight;-- The woods are but a week away!
_L'Envoi_
Dear Reader, there is much to write; I've many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite, And woods are but a week away!
TO THE SUN
(_Variations on a theme by Gilbert._)
s.h.i.+ne on, Old Top, s.h.i.+ne on!
Across the realms of s.p.a.ce s.h.i.+ne on!
What though I'm in a sorry case?
What though my collar is a wreck, And hangs a rag about my neck?
What though at food I can but peck?
Never _you_ mind!
s.h.i.+ne on!
s.h.i.+ne on, Old Top, s.h.i.+ne on!
Through leagues of lifeless air s.h.i.+ne on!
It's true I've no more s.h.i.+rts to wear, My underwear is soaked, 'tis true, My gullet is a redhot flue-- But don't let that unsettle you!
Never _you_ mind!
s.h.i.+ne on! [_It s.h.i.+nes on._]
WHEN IT IS HOT
"_And Nebuchadnezzar commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace._"
Consider Mr. Shadrach, Of fiery furnace fame: He didn't bleat about the heat Or fuss about the flame.
He didn't stew and worry, And get his nerves in kinks, Nor fill his skin with limes and gin And other "cooling drinks."
Consider Mr. Meshach, Who felt the furnace too: He let it sizz nor queried "Is It hot enough for you?"
He didn't mop his forehead, And hunt a shady spot; Nor did he say, "Gee! what a day!
Believe me, it's some hot."
Consider, too, Abed-nego, Who shared his comrades' plight: He didn't shake his coat and make Himself a holy sight.
He didn't wear suspenders Without a coat and vest; Nor did he scowl and snort and howl, And make himself a pest.
Consider, friends, this trio-- How little fuss they made.
They didn't curse when it was worse Than ninety in the shade.
They moved about serenely Within the furnace bright, And soon forgot that it was hot, With "no relief in sight."
THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY
Lives of poets oft remind us Not to wait too long for Time, But, departing, leave behind us Obvious facts embalmed in rime.
Poems that we have to ponder Turn us prematurely gray; We are infinitely fonder Of the simple, heartfelt lay.
Whitman's _Leaves of Gra.s.s_ is odious, Browning's _Ring and Book_ a bore.
Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious,-- Bleat that two and two is four!
Must we hunt for hidden treasures?
Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.
Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures-- Sing that four and four is eight!
Whitman leads to easy slumbers, Browning makes us hunt the hay.
Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers, Anything ye have to say.
QHORATIVSFLACCUS B L TSVOSALVTEM
HAECCARMINAMIVETVLEQVAE MEIVVENEPARVMDILIGENTER COMPOSITAEXCIDERVNTSENEX REFICIENDALIMANDAQVEIAM DVDVMEXISTIMOQVODNVNC DEMVMFACTVMESTMIRARIS FORTa.s.sECVRANGLICERE SCRIPSERIMDESINESMIRARI CVMDIXEROSINEFVCOOPOR TEREPOETAETIAMVIVVSNON SOLVMACCOMMODEMMEAOPERA ADNORMAMRECENTIORVMTEM PORVMSEDETIAMVTARNEMPE EALINGVAQVAEMAIORERE SILIENDIVt.i.tADICAMVI PRAEDITAVIDEATVRVELIM SINTNOVIVERSVSTIBIMVL TOIVCVNDIORESQVAMPRIS CAEXEMPLA
SCRIBEBAMHELNGON [=XVII]KALDEC
A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS
(_Concerning the verses that follow._)
Dear B. L. T.:
