Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: Poems by Macy Arthur
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page
Ebook has 353 lines and 21702 words, and 8 pages
The Jonquil Maid 96
The Rollicking Mastodon 99
The Five Senses 102
Economy 103
Idylettes of the Queen 105
To M. E. 110
Bon Voyage 111
The Book of Life 112
POEMS
IN REMEMBRANCE
Sit closer, friends, around the board! Death grants us yet a little time. Now let the cheering cup be poured, And welcome song and jest and rhyme. Enjoy the gifts that fortune sends. Sit closer, friends!
And yet, we pause. With trembling lip We strive the fitting phrase to make; Remembering our fellowship, Lamenting Destiny's mistake. We marvel much when Fate offends, And claims our friends.
Companion of our nights of mirth, Where all were merry who were wise; Does Death quite understand your worth, And know the value of his prize? I doubt me if he comprehends-- He knows no friends.
And in that realm is there no joy Of comrades and the jocund sense? Can Death so utterly destroy-- For gladness grant no recompense? And can it be that laughter ends With absent friends?
Oh, scholars whom we wisest call, Who solve great questions at your ease, We ask the simplest of them all, And yet you cannot answer these! And is it thus your knowledge ends, To comfort friends?
Dear Omar! should You chance to meet Our Brother Somewhere in the Gloom, Pray give to Him a Message sweet, From Brothers in the Tavern Room. He will not ask who 'tis that sends, For We were Friends.
Again a parting sail we see; Another boat has left the shore. A kinder soul on board has she Than ever left the land before. And as her outward course she bends, Sit closer, friends!
THE OLD CAF?
You know, Don't you, Joe, Those merry evenings long ago? You know the room, the narrow stair, The wreaths of smoke that circled there, The corner table where we sat For hours in after-dinner chat, And magnified Our little world inside. You know, Don't you, Joe?
Ah, those nights divine! The simple, frugal wine, The airs on crude Italian strings, The joyous, harmless revelings, Just fit for us--or kings! At times a quaint and wickered flask Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask Of modest Pilsener a stein or so, Amid the merry talk would flow; Or red Bordeaux From vines that grew where dear Montaigne Held his domain. And you remember that dark eye, None too shy; In fact, she seemed a bit too free For you and me. You know, Don't you, Joe?
Then Pegasus I knew, And then I read to you My callow rhymes So many, many times; And something in the place Lent them a certain grace, Until I scarce believed them mine, Under the magic of the wine; But now I read them o'er, And see grave faults I had not seen before, And wonder how You could have listened with such placid brow, And somehow apprehend You sank the critic in the friend. You know, Don't you, Joe?
And when we talked of books, How learned were our looks! And few the bards we could not quote, From gay Catullus' lines to Milton's purer note. Mayhap we now are wiser men, But we knew more than all the scholars then; And our conceit Was grand, ineffable, complete! We know, Don't we, Joe?
Gone are those golden nights Of innocent Bohemian delights, And we are getting on; And anon, Years sad and tremulous May be in store for us; But should we ever meet Upon some quiet street, And you discover in an old man's eye Some transient sparkle of the days gone by, Then you will guess, perchance, The meaning of the glance; You'll know, Won't you, Joe?
AT MARLIAVE'S
At Marliave's when eventide Finds rare companions at my side, The laughter of each merry guest At quaint conceit, or kindly jest, Makes golden moments swiftly glide. No voice unkind our faults to chide, Our smallest virtue magnified; And friendly hand to hand is pressed At Marliave's.
I lay my years and cares aside Accepting what the gods provide, I ask not for a lot more blest, Nor do I crave a sweeter rest Than that which comes with eventide At Marliave's.
THE PASSING OF THE ROSE
A lover brushed the dew aside, And fondly plucked it for his bride. "A fitting choice!" the White Rose cried.
The maiden wore it in her hair; The Rose, contented to be there, Still proudly boasted, "None so fair!"
Then close she pressed it to her lips, But, weary of companionships, The flower within her bosom slips.
O'ercome by all the beauty there, It straight confessed, "Dear maid, I swear 'Tis you, and you alone, are fair!"
Turning its humbled head aside, The envious Rose, lamenting, died.
A VALENTINE
This is a valentine for you. Mother made it. She's real smart, I told her that I loved you true And you were my sweetheart.
And then she smiled, and then she winked, And then she said to father, "Beginning young!" and then he thinked, And then he said, "Well, rather."
Then mother's eyes began to shine, And then she made this valentine: "If you love me as I love you, No knife shall cut our love in two," And father laughed and said, "How new!" And then he said, "It's time for bed."
So, when I'd said my prayers, Mother came running up the stairs And told me I might send the rhymes, And then she kissed me lots of times. Then I turned over to the wall And cried about you, and--that's all.
DISENCHANTMENT
Time and I have fallen out; We, who were such steadfast friends. So slowly has it come about That none may tell when it began; Yet sure am I a cunning plan Runs through it all; And now, beyond recall, Our friendship ends, And ending, there remains to me The memory of disloyalty.
Long years ago Time tripping came With promise grand, And sweet assurances of fame; And hand in hand Through fairy-land Went he and I together In bright and golden weather. Then, then I had not learned to doubt, For friends were gods, and faith was sure, And words were truth, and deeds were pure, Before we had our falling out; And life, all hope, was fair to see, When Time made promise sweet to me.
When first my faithless friend grew cold I sought to knit a closer bond, But he, less fond, Sad days and years upon me rolled, Pressed me with care, With envy tinged the boyhood hair, And ploughed unwelcome furrows in Where none had been. In vain I begged with trembling lip For our old sweet companionship, And saw, 'mid prayers and tears devout, The presage of our falling out.
And now I know Time has no friends, Nor pity lends, But touches all With heavy finger soon or late; And as we wait The Reaper's call, The sickle's fatal sweep, We strive in vain to keep One truth inviolate, One cherished fancy free from doubt. It was not so Long years ago, Before we had our falling out.
If Time would come again to me, And once more take me by the hand For golden walks through fairy-land, I could forgive the treachery That stole my youth And what of truth Was mine to know; Nor would I more his love misdoubt; And I would throw My arms around him so, That he'd forgive the falling out!
CONSTANCY
I first saw Phebe when the show'rs Had just made brighter all the flow'rs; Yet she was fair As any there, And so I loved her hours and hours.
Then I met Helen, and her ways Set my untutored heart ablaze. I loved at sight And deemed it right To worship her for days and days.
Yet when I gazed on Clara's cheeks And spoke the language Cupid speaks, O'er all the rest She seemed the best, And so I loved her weeks and weeks.
But last of Love's sweet souvenirs Was Delia with her sighs and tears. Of her it seemed I'd always dreamed, And so I loved her years and years.
But now again with Phebe met, I love the first one of the set. "Fickle," you say? I answer, "Nay, My heart is true to one quartette."
A POET'S LESSON
Poet, my master, come, tell me true, And how are your verses made? Ah! that is the easiest thing to do:-- You take a cloud of a silvern hue, A tender smile or a sprig of rue, With plenty of light and shade,
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page