Post-Impression

POST-IMPRESSIONISM

I CANNOT tell you how I love
The canvases of Mr. Dove,
Which Saturday I went to see
In Mr. Thurber's gallery.

At first you fancy they are built
As patterns for a crazy quilt,

But soon you see that they express

An ambient simultaneousness.

This thing which you would almost bet
Portrays a Spanish omelette,
Depicts instead, with wondrous skill,
A horse and cart upon a hill.

Now, Mr. Dove has too much art

To show the horse or show the cart;
Instead, he paints the creak and strain,
Get it? No pike is half as plain.

This thing which would appear to show
A fancy vest scenario,

Is really quite another thing,

A flock of pigeons on the wing.

But Mr. Dove is much too keen
To let a single bird be seen;
To show the pigeons would not do
And so he simply paints the coo.

It's all as simple as can be;

He paints the things you cannot see,

Just as composers please the ear

With "programme" things you cannot hear.

Dove is the cleverest of chaps;
And, gazing at his rhythmic maps,

I wondered (and I'm wondering yet)

Whether he did them on a bet.

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Bert Leston Taylor.

TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN,”

IN THE ATHENÆUM GALLERY

Ir may be so-perhaps thou hast
A warm and loving heart;
I will not blame thee for thy face,
Poor devil as thou art.

That thing, thou fondly deem'st a nose,
Unsightly though it be,-

In spite of all the cold world's scorn,
It may be much to thee.

Those eyes,-among thine elder friends
Perhaps they pass for blue;-

No matter, if a man can see,
What more have eyes to do?

Thy mouth-that fissure in thy face
By something like a chin,-
May be a very useful place
To put thy victual in.

I know thou hast a wife at home,
I know thou hast a child,
By that subdued, domestic smile.
Upon thy features mild.

That wife sits fearless by thy side,
That cherub on thy knee;
They do not shudder at thy looks,
They do not shrink from thee.

Above thy mantel is a hook,—
A portrait once was there;
It was thine only ornament,-
Alas! that hook is bare.

To the Portrait of “A Gentleman "

She begged thee not to let it go,

She begged thee all in vain:

She wept, and breathed a trembling prayer
To meet it safe again.

It was a bitter sight to see
That picture torn away;

It was a solemn thought to think
What all her friends would say!

And often in her calmer hours,
And in her happy dreams,

Upon its long-deserted hook

The absent portrait seems.

Thy wretched infant turns his head
In melancholy wise,

And looks to meet the placid stare
Of those unbending eyes.

I never saw thee, lovely one,-
Perchance I never may;

It is not often that we cross
Such people in our way;

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But if we meet in distant years,
Or on some foreign shore,

Sure I can take my Bible oath

I've seen that face before.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

CACOËTHES SCRIBENDI

IF all the trees in all the woods were men,
And each and every blade of grass a pen;
If every leaf on every shrub and tree
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea

Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes,
And for ten thousand ages, day and night,

The human race should write, and write, and write,
Till all the pens and paper were used up,
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup,
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone
(A very plain brone stone will do)
That I may call my own;

And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;
If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three-Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice-
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;
Give me a mortgage here and there,
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share.

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend.

Contentment

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin

To care for such unfruitful things;
One good-sized diamond in a pin,

Some, not so large, in rings.
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me--I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire
(Good, heavy silks are never dear);
I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere-
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait-two, forty-five

Suits me; I do not care;

Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own

Titians and Raphaels three or four-
I love so much their style and tone-
One Turner, and no more.
(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt).

Of books but few-some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam,

And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems-such things as these,

Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride;

One Stradivarius, I confess,

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

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