Two Men 35 As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. They's something kindo' hearty-like about the atmosphere, When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is hereOf course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetisin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; TWO MEN THERE be two men of all mankind Melchizedek he praised the Lord, And gave some wine to Abraham; Ucalegon he lost his house When Agamemnon came to Troy; There be two men of all mankind Melchizedek, Ucalegon. Edwin Arlington Robinson. A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL YES, write if you want to-there's nothing like trying; If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold. Here's a book full of words: one can choose as he fancies. You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero; Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lillian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine. There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavour of which we're afraid; There is "lush" is a good one and "swirl" is another; Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made. With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!" A Familiar Letter Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire. As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes. Let me show you a picture-'tis far from irrelevant- 'Tis only a photographed sketch of an elephant; 37 The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine. How easy! no troublesome colours to lay on; It can't have fatigued him, no, not in the least; A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast. Just so with your verse-'tis as easy as sketching; Well, imagine you've printed your volume of verses; Her album the school-girl presents for your name. Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; Of course you're delighted to serve the committees With a hymn for the saints, and a song for the sinners, At length your mere presence becomes a sensation; As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or That's him!" But, remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched. No will of your own, with its puny compulsion, So, perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet, If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose. But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written; I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself. Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS I WROTE Some lines once on a time And thought, as usual, men would say The Height of the Ridiculous They were so queer, so very queer, I called my servant, and he came; To mind a slender man like me, "These to the printer," I exclaimed, I added (as a trifling jest), He took the paper, and I watched, He read the next, the grin grew broad, He read the third, a chuckling noise The fourth, he broke into a roar; The fifth, his waistband split; The sixth, he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit. Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can. 39 Oliver Wendell Holmes. |