I shall list to the stars when the music is purple,
Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings; Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway
That stands between speech and unspeakable things.
As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?
Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?
Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted
Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?
Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?
O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds,
And think of its paces-of owners and races-
Relinquish the links for the study of studs.
Not understood? Take me hence! Take me yonder!
Take me away to the land of my rest-
There where the Ganges and other gees wander,
And uncles and antelopes act for the best,
And all things are mixed and run into each other
In a violet twilight of virtues and sins,
With the church-spires below you and no one to show you Where the curate leaves off and the pew-rent begins!
In the black night through the rank grass the snakes peer-
The cobs and the cobras are partial to grass-
And a boy wanders out with a knowledge of Shakespeare
That's not often found in a boy of his class,
And a girl wanders out without any knowledge,
And a bird wanders out, and a cow wanders out,
Likewise one wether, and they wander together-
There's a good deal of wandering lying about.
But its all for the best; I've been told by my friends, Sir,
That in verses I'd written the meaning was slight;
I've tried with no meaning-to make 'em amends, Sir-
And find that this kind's still more easy to write.
The title has nothing to do with the verses,
But think of the millions-the laborers who In busy employment find deepest enjoyment, And yet, like my title, have nothing to do!
AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE
THE hale John Sprat-oft called for shortness, Jack-
Had married-had, in fact, a wife-and she
Did worship him with wifely reverence.
He, who had loved her when she was a girl,
Compass'd her too, with sweet observances;
E'en at the dinner table did it shine.
For he liking no fat himself-he never did,
With jealous care piled up her plate with lean,
Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her.
And day by day she thought to tell him o 't,
And watched the fat go out with envious eye,
But could not speak for bashful delicacy.
At last it chanced that on a winter day,
The beef-a prize joint!-little was but fat;
So fat, that John had all his work cut out,
To snip out lean fragments for his wife,
Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself;
Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul,
Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint
Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said;
"Oh, husband! full of love and tenderness!
What is the cause that you so jealously
Pick out the lean for me. I like it not!
Nay, loathe it 'tis on the fat that I would feast;
O me, I fear you do not like my taste!"
Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife,
Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown,
Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife!
And never told me. Oh, this is not kind!
Think what your reticence has wrought for us;
How all the fat sent down unto the maid-
Who likes not fat-for such maids never do-
Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease,
And pocketed as servant's perquisite !
Oh, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce,
A joint must be not fat nor lean, but both;
Our different tastes will serve our purpose well;
For, while you eat the fat-the lean to me
Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!"
So henceforth-he that tells the tale relates-
In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown;
For he the lean did eat, and she the fat,
And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared.
THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
AND this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! and here his malt he piled.
Cautious in vain! these rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did he not see her gleaming through the glade!
Belike 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milked no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye she haunts the dale where erst she strayed:
And aye before her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And through those brogues, still tattered and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
AFTER T-B-A
I LAY i' the bosom of the sun,
Under the roses dappled and dun.
I thought of the Sultan Gingerbeer,
In his palace beside the Bendemeer,
With his Afghan guards and his eunuchs blind,
And the harem that stretched for a league behind.
The tulips bent i' the summer breeze,
Under the broad chrysanthemum-trees,
And the minstrel, playing his culverin,
Made for mine ears a merry din.
If I were the Sultan, and he were I,
Here i' the grass he should loafing lie,
And I should bestride my zebra steed,
And ride to the hunt of the centipede:
While the pet of the harem, Dandeline,
Should fill me a crystal bucket of wine,
And the kislar aga, Up-to-Snuff,
Should wipe my mouth when I sighed, "Enough!"
And the gay court poet, Fearfulbore,
Should sit in the hall when the hunt was o'er,
And chant me songs of silvery tone,
Not from Hafiz, but-mine own!
Ah, wee sweet love, beside me here,
I am not the Sultan Gingerbeer,
Nor you the odalisque Dandeline,
Yet I am yourn, and you are mine!
To yow, my Purse, and to noon other wighte,
Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!
I am so sorry now that ye been lyghte,
For, certes, yf ye make me hevy chere, Me were as leef be layde upon my beere. For whiche unto your mercie thus I crye, Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nighte,
That I of yow the blissful soun may here,
Or see your colour lyke the sunnè brighte,
That of yellownesse haddè never pere.
Ye be my lyf! ye be myn herty's stere!
Quenè of comfort and good companye!
Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!
Now, Purse! that ben to me my lyve's lyghte,
And surety as doune in this world here,
Out of this toune helpè me through your myghte,
Syn that you wole not bene my tresorere;
For I am shave as nigh as is a frere.
But I pray unto your curtesye,
Beethe hevy ageyne, or elles mote I die!
POWER to thine elbow, thou newest of sciences,
All the old landmarks are ripe for decay;
Wars are but shadows, and so are alliances,
Darwin the great is the man of the day.
All other 'ologies want an apology;
Bread's a mistake-Science offers a stone; Nothing is true but AnthropobiologyDarwin the great understands it alone.
Mighty the great evolutionist teacher is
Licking Morphology clean into shape;
Lord! what an ape the Professor or Preacher is
Ever to doubt his descent from an ape.
Man's an Anthropoid-he cannot help that, you know— First evoluted from Pongos of old;
He's but a branch of the catarrhine cat, you know— Monkey I mean-that's an ape with a cold.
Fast dying out are man's later Appearances,
Cataclysmitic Geologies gone;
Now of Creation completed the clearance is,
Darwin alone you must anchor upon.
Primitive Life-Organisms were chemical,
Busting spontaneous under the sea;
Purely subaqueous, panaquademical,
Was the original Crystal of Me.
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