Songs for a Little House

by Christopher Morley

HAY FEVER, AND OTHER LITERARY POLLEN

HAY FEVER

If Rudyard Kipling Had It

If you can face a ragweed without sneezing And walk undaunted past a stack of hay; If you can find a field of daisies pleasing, And not require ten handkerchiefs a day; If you can stroll in meadowland and orchard And greet the goldenrod with gay surprise, And not be most abominably tortured By swollen nose and bloodshot, flaming eyes; If you can go on sneezing like a geyser And never utter one unmeasured curse; If you can squeeze the useless atomiser Nor look with envy on each passing hearse; If you can still be merry in September, And not lay plans to drown yourself in drink, Then your career is something to remember, And you deserve an Iron Cross, I think!

HAY FEVER

If Amy Lowell Had It

Far away In the third-floor-back of my skull I feel a light, airy, prurient, menacing tickling, Dainty as the pattering toes of nautch girls On a polished cabaret floor. Suddenly, With a crescendo like an approaching express train, The fury bursts upon me.... My brain explodes. Pinwheels of violet fire Whirl and spin before my bloodshot eyes— Violet, puce, ochre, nacre, euchre ... all the other Colours, Including jade, umber and sienna. My ears ring, my soul reels. I tingle with agony. Who invented goldenrod? I wish I were dead. Aaaaaaarrrrrrhhhaashoooo!

HAY FEVER

If Hilaire Belloc Had It

With this handkerchief and this nose Seven million separate blows Neighed I, brayed I, sobbed I, blew I, Snorted I, wept I, mopped I, crew I, Tickled I, prickled I, groaned and moaned I, And for all my sins atoned I; Raged I, sniffled I, and exploded, And a speedy death foreboded, Swayed I, prayed I, shook I, shouted I, To expensive doctors touted I, Gobbled I, hobbled I, atomised I, Cursed I and philosophised I, Worked I, shirked I, lay and lurked I, And in horrid spasms jerked I, Camphored, menthol'd, and cold creamed I And asthmatic nightmares dreamed I, Those who hate me highly pleased I, And—I'll not conceal it— SNEEZED I!

HAY FEVER

If Edgar Lee Masters Had It

Ed Grimes always did hate me Because I wrote better poetry than he did. In the hay fever season I used to walk Along the river bank, to keep as far as possible Away from pollen. One day Ed and his brother crept up behind me While I was writing a sonnet, Tied my hands and feet, And carried me into a hayfield and left me. I sneezed myself to death. At the funeral the church was full of goldenrod, And I think it must have been Ed Who sowed that ragweed all round my grave.

HYMN TO THE DAIRYMAIDS ON BEACON STREET

Sweetly solemn see them stand, Spinning churns on either hand, Neatly capped and aproned white— Airy fairy dairy sight! Jersey priestesses they seem Miracleing milk to cream. Cream solidifies to cheese By Pasteural mysteries, And they give, within their shrine, Their communion in kine. Incantations pure they mutter O'er the golden minted butter And (no layman hand can pen it) See them gloat above their rennet! By that hillside window pane Rugged teamsters draw the rein, Doff the battered hat and bow To these acolytes of cow. Genuflect, ye passersby! Muse upon their ritual high— Milk to cream, yea, cream to cheese White lacteal mysteries! Let adorers sing the word Of the smoothly flowing curd. Yea, we sing with bells and fife This is the Whey, this is the Life!

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO A SUBWAY EXCAVATION

Much have I travelled, a commuter bold, And many goodly excavations seen; Round many miles of planking have I been Which wops in fealty to contractors hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Where dynamite had swept the traffic clean, And every passer-by must duck his bean Or flying rocks would lay him stiff and cold. As I was crossing Broadway, with surprise I held my breath and improvised a prayer: I saw the solid street before me rise And men and trolleys leap into the air. I gazed into the pit with doubtful eyes, Silent upon a peak in Herald Square.

BALLAD OF NEW AMSTERDAM

There are no bowls on Bowling Green, No maids in Maiden lane; The river path to Greenwich No longer doth remain. No longer in the Bouwerie Stands Peter Stuyvesant his tree! And yet the Dutchmen built their dorp With sturdy wit and will; In Nassau street their spectral feet Are heard to echo still. In many places sure I am New York is still Nieuw Amsterdam. Sometimes at night in Bowling Green There comes a rumbling sound, Which literal minds are wont to think The Subway. But I found That still the Dutchmen ease their souls By playing ghostly games of bowls!

CASUALTY

A well-sharp'd pencil leads one on to write: When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed; The primed occasion puts the deed in sight: Who steals a book who knows not how to read? Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep? A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife? Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life.

AT THE WOMEN'S CLUBS

A representation of what happens when Mr. Dunraven Dulcet, the gifted poet, reads some of his verses to an audience of two hundred ladies and one man. After Mr. Dulcet has been introduced, and after he has expressed his mortification (or is it gratification?) at Madam Chairman's kind remarks, he proceeds as follows. The comments of his audience are indicated in italics.

	Romance abides in humble things:— How commonplace the precious ore! The shining vision sometimes springs
The one man:
	From too much cheese the night before!
	The man who seeks the True Romance Among the high aristocrats, Forgets the crowning circumstance
Mrs. Smith:
	My dear, he wears the sweetest spats!
	Some little gutter-dabbling child, Some shabby clerk whom all despise— On him Olympus may have smiled
Mrs. Brown:
	He has those dark romantic eyes!
	Some shimmer from the lustred dawn Of hitherto unguessed to-morrows, Imperishable laurels drawn
Mrs. Jones:
	I think he must have secret sorrows!
	Immeasurable arcs of sky, Vast spaces where the great winds shout, His eye must pierce, his hand must try....
Mrs. Robinson:
	Too bad that he is growing stout!
	His heart is like a parchment scroll Whereon the beautiful, the true, Are registered; and in his soul
Mrs. Smith:
	I do love poetry, don't you?
	Romance abides in humble things, And humble people understand That feathers from an angel's wings
Mrs. Brown:
	I must just go and shake his hand!

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 ice-box, 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-maché 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 village collier (flinty-hearted beast) Who tried to hold me up in such a pinch May soon be numbered with the dear deceased: I give him to the mercy of Judge Lynch.

MOONS WE SAW AT SEVENTEEN

August casts her burning spell: One vast sapphire is the sky; Woods still have their musky smell, By the pool the dragon fly Like a jewelled scarf-pin glows. Doris, Vera, and Kathleen— Where are they? and where are those Moons we saw at seventeen? Bright as amber, and as round As a new engagement ring— (So we murmured, gently bound To some flapper's leading string.) Sweet and witless repartee: Perilous canoes careen— Telescopes would split, to see MOONS we saw at seventeen!

AT THE DOG SHOW

To an Irish Wolf Hound

Long and grey and gaunt he lies, A Lincoln among dogs; his eyes, Deep and clear of sight, appraise The meaningless and shuffling ways Of human folk that stop to stare. One witless woman seeing there How tired, how contemptuous He is of all the smell and fuss Asks him, "Poor fellow, are you sick?" Yea, sick, and weary to the quick Of heat and noise from dawn to dark. He will not even stoop to bark His protest, like the lesser bred. Would he might know, one gazer read The wistful longing in his face, The thirst for wind and open space And stretch of limbs to him begrudged. There came a little, dapper, fat And bustling man, with cane and spat And pearl-grey vest and derby hat— Such were the judger and the judged!

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.

TO ALL MY FRIENDS

"There's nothing worth the wear of winning But laughter and the love of friends."

—Hilaire Belloc.

If those who have been kind to me Should ever chance these rhymes to see; Then let them know, upon the spot, Their kindnesses are not forgot! If any worthy task was done, The acts were never mine, not one: For parent, teacher, wife or friend Inspired the will, foresaw the end. What sorrows do our friends avert! How loyal, far beyond desert! And yet how churlish, dumb and crude Are all our words of gratitude. Then O remember, you and YOU, My old familiars, leal and true— The love that bonded you and me Is not forgot, will never be!

A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL

O noble gracious English tongue Whose fibres we so sadly twist, For caitiff measures he has sung Have pardon on the journalist. For mumbled metre, leaden pun, For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word, Have pity on this graceless one— Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord! The metaphors and tropes depart, Our little clippings fade and bleach: There is no virtue and no art Save in straightforward Saxon speech. Yet not in ignorance or spite, Nor with Thy noble past forgot We sinned: indeed we had to write To keep a fire beneath the pot. Then grant that in the coming time, With inky hand and polished sleeve, In lucid prose or honest rhyme Some worthy task we may achieve— Some pinnacled and marbled phrase, Some lyric, breaking like the sea, That we may learn, not hoping praise, The gift of Thy simplicity.

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