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Read Ebook: Chimneysmoke by Morley Christopher Fogarty Thomas Illustrator
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Ebook has 455 lines and 21163 words, and 10 pages
t I souse each dish and pan and pot; While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs, And rubs himself against my legs.
The man who never in his life Has washed the dishes with his wife Or polished up the silver plate-- He still is largely celibate.
One warning: there is certain ware That must be handled with all care: The Lord Himself will give you up If you should drop a willow cup!
THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES
As I went by the church to-day I heard the organ cry; And goodly folk were on their knees, But I went striding by.
My minster hath a roof more vast: My aisles are oak trees high; My altar-cloth is on the hills, My organ is the sky.
I see my rood upon the clouds, The winds, my chanted choir; My crystal windows, heaven-glazed, Are stained with sunset fire.
The stars, the thunder, and the rain, White sands and purple seas-- These are His pulpit and His pew, My God of Unbent Knees!
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN
The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, The coal supply is virtually done, And at this price, indeed it does not seem As though we could afford another ton.
Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; The radiators lose their temperature: How ill avail, on such a frosty night, The "short and simple flannels of the poor."
Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid, The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep, No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.
Can Morris-chair or papier-m??ch? bust Revivify the failing pressure-gauge? Chop up the grand piano if you must, And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!
Full many a can of purest kerosene The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean To bring my morning coffee to a boil.
THE OLD SWIMMER
I often wander on the beach Where once, so brown of limb, The biting air, the roaring surf Summoned me to swim.
I see my old abundant youth Where combers lean and spill, And though I taste the foam no more Other swimmers will.
Oh, good exultant strength to meet The arching wall of green, To break the crystal, swirl, emerge Dripping, taut, and clean.
To climb the moving hilly blue, To dive in ecstasy And feel the salty chill embrace Arm and rib and knee.
What brave and vanished laughter then And tingling thighs to run, What warm and comfortable sands Dreaming in the sun.
The crumbling water spreads in snow, The surf is hissing still, And though I kiss the salt no more Other swimmers will.
THE MOON-SHEEP
The moon seems like a docile sheep, She pastures while all people sleep; But sometimes, when she goes astray, She wanders all alone by day.
Up in the clear blue morning air We are surprised to see her there, Grazing in her woolly white, Waiting the return of night.
When dusk lets down the meadow bars She greets again her lambs, the stars!
SMELLS
Why is it that the poets tell So little of the sense of smell? These are the odors I love well:
The smell of coffee freshly ground; Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned; Or onions fried and deeply browned.
The fragrance of a fumy pipe; The smell of apples, newly ripe; And printers' ink on leaden type.
Woods by moonlight in September Breathe most sweet; and I remember Many a smoky camp-fire ember.
SMELLS
My Daddy smells like tobacco and books, Mother, like lavender and listerine; Uncle John carries a whiff of cigars, Nannie smells starchy and soapy and clean.
Shandy, my dog, has a smell of his own ; But Katie, the cook, is more splendid than all-- She smells exactly like hot buttered toast!
MAR QUONG, CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN
I like the Chinese laundryman: He smokes a pipe that bubbles, And seems, as far as I can tell, A man with but few troubles. He has much to do, no doubt, But also much to think about.
Most men Are spending, at all times, All our hard-earned quarters, Our nickels and our dimes: With Mar Quong it's the other way-- He takes in small change every day.
Next time you call for collars In his steamy little shop, Observe how tight his pigtail Is coiled and piled on top. But late at night he lets it hang And thinks of the Yang-tse-kiang.
THE FAT LITTLE PURSE
On Saturdays, after the baby Is bathed, fed, and sleeping serene, His mother, as quickly as may be, Arranges the household routine. She rapidly makes herself pretty And leaves the young limb with his nurse, Then gaily she starts for the city, And with her the fat little purse.
She trips through the crowd at the station, To the rendezvous spot where we meet, And keeping her eyes from temptation, She avoids the most windowy street! She is off for the Weekly Adventure; To her comrade for better and worse She says, "Never mind, when you've spent your Last bit, here's the fat little purse."
Apart, in her thrifty exchequer, She has hidden what must not be spent: Enough for the butcher and baker, Katie's wages, and milkman, and rent; But the rest of her brave little treasure She is gleeful and prompt to disburse-- What a richness of innocent pleasure Can come from her fat little purse!
THE REFLECTION
I have not heard her voice, nor seen her face, Nor touched her hand; And yet some echo of her woman's grace I understand.
I have no picture of her lovelihood, Her smile, her tint; But that she is both beautiful and good I have true hint.
In all that my friend thinks and says, I see Her mirror true; His thought of her is gentle; she must be All gentle too.
In all his grief or laughter, work or play, Each mood and whim, How brave and tender, day by common day, She speaks through him!
Therefore I say I know her, be her face Or dark or fair-- For when he shows his heart's most secret place I see her there!
THE BALLOON PEDDLER
Who is the man on Chestnut street With colored toy balloons? I see him with his airy freight On sunny afternoons-- A peddler of such lovely goods! The heart leaps to behold His mass of bubbles, red and green And blue and pink and gold.
For sure that noble peddler man Hath antic merchandise: His toys that float and swim in air Attract my eager eyes. Perhaps he is a changeling prince Bewitched through magic moons To tempt us solemn busy folk With meaningless balloons.
Beware, oh, valiant merchantman, Tread cautious on the pave! Lest some day come some realist, Some haggard soul and grave, A puritan efficientist Who deems thy toys a sin-- He'll stalk thee madly from behind And prick them with a pin!
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