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SECRET LAUGHTER
"I had a secret laughter."
--Walter de la Mare.
There is a secret laughter That often comes to me, And though I go about my work As humble as can be, There is no prince or prelate I envy--no, not one.
No evil can befall me-- By G.o.d, I have a son!
SIX WEEKS OLD
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.
[Ill.u.s.tration:
_A little world he feels and sees:_ _His mother's arms, his mother's knees_--]
A CHARM
For Our New Fireplace, To Stop Its Smoking
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
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 n.i.g.g.e.rfist.
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 B.
For this dear pipe You feign to scorn I smoked the night The boy was born."
THE 5:42
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.
(Then, across Long Island meadows, Darker, darker, grow the shadows: Patience, little waiting la.s.s!
Laggard minutes slowly pa.s.s; Patience, laughs the yellow fire: Homeward bound is heart's desire!)
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!
All down Thirty-second Street _Homeward, Homeward_, say the feet!
Tramping men, uncouth to view, Footsore, weary, thrill anew; Gone the ringing telephones, Blessed nightfall now atones, Casting brightness on the snow Golden the train windows go.
Then (how long it seems) at last All the way is overpast.
Heart that beats your m.u.f.fled 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 beat.i.tude.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _The 5:42_]
PETER PAN
"The boy for whom Barrie wrote Peter Pan--the original of Peter Pan--has died in battle."
--New York Times.
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.
