THE MODERN RUBAIYAT
(Dobley's Version)
HARK! for the message cometh from the King!
Winter, thy doom is spoke; thy dirges ring,
Thy time is o'er—and through the Palace door
Enter the Princess! Hail the new-crowned Spring!
Comes she all rose-crowned, glowing with the Joy
Of Laughter and of Cupid, the God-Boy;
Buds bursting on the bough in welcoming
To Her we Love, whose loving will not cloy!
List! from the organ rippling in the Street
Come sounds rejoicing, glad Her reign to greet.
The Shad is smiling in the Market Place
And eke the Little Neck! Ah—Life is Sweet!
Come, let us lilt a Merry Little Song
And in an Automobile glide along
Into the glory of the Year's new Birth.
Hasten! Oh, haste! For this is Spring, I Think!
Come where the Bonnets bloom within the Grove
And let us pluck them for the One we Love;
Violets and Things and chiffon-nested Birds.
Tell me—didst ever see a Glass-Eyed Dove?
Think you how many Springs will go and come
When We are Dead Ones—and the busy Hum
Of life will never reach us—Nothing Done
And Nothing Doing in the Silence Glum!
Listen! the cable car's Gay Gong has rang,
The Elevated on its perch, A-clang
Like to a District Messenger astir.
Thought you, it was a Nightingale that sang?
Ah! my Beloved, when it's Really Spring
We know it by the Buds a-blossoming,
Signals from earth to sky—Tremendous Sounds
That might to Some mean any Ancient Thing!
Then let us to the Caravan at Once,
The Sawdust where the Peanut haunts
The air with strange sweet Odors
And the Elephant does Wild and Woolly Stunts!
Asparagus is glowing on the Stall,
The Spring lamb cavorts on the Menu tall;
Strawberries ripe—a Dollar for the Box:
Wouldn't it jar You somehow, After all?
A Book of Coon Songs underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Dozen Buns, and Thou
Beside me singing rag-time? I don't know?
I wonder would a dozen be enow?
I sent my soul afling through Joy and Pain
For Information that the Winds might deign.
Softly the breezes pitched it, Russie-curved,
And whispered slowly—sadly—“Guess Again."
Sometimes I think the Glories that they Sing
Are like the grape-vine the Fox tried to cling;
But take To-day—and make the Most of It,
I think it's Just Too Sweet for anything!
What of To-morrow—say you? Oh, my Friend—
To-morrow's Not been Touched. It's yet to Spend.
I often wonder if we should expire
If we could but Collect the Gold we Lend!
Ah, Love! could Thou and I Creation run,
How Different our Scheme! The Summer's sun
Would see another Springtime blossoming,
Another Summer's Rose to Follow On!
And Leaning from the Sky a Little Star
Would Tell Us from the Canopy afar
What now we Grope for in the Dinky-dink,
And wonder blindly, vaguely, What we Are!
And when Alone you dream your fancies ripe,
Thyself all Hasheesh-fed—My Prototype!
Smoke Up—and when you gather with the Group
Where I made One—Turn Down an Empty Pipe!
Kate Masterson
LINES WRITTEN (“BY REQUEST")
FOR A DINNER OF THE OMAR
KHAYYAM CLUB
MASTER, in memory of that Verse of Thine,
And of Thy rather pretty taste in Wine,
We gather at this jaded Century's end,
Our Cheeks, if so we may, to incarnadine.
Thou hast the kind of Halo which outstays
Most other Genii's. Though a Laureate's bays
Should slowly crumple up, Thou livest on,
Having survived a certain Paraphrase.
The Lion and the Alligator squat
In Dervish Courts—the Weather being hot—
Under Umbrellas. Where is Mahmud now?
Plucked by the Kitchener and gone to Pot!
Not so with thee; but in Thy place of Rest,
Where East is East and never can be West,
Thou art the enduring Theme of dining Bards;
O make allowances; they do their Best.
Our Health—Thy Prophet's health—is but so-so;
Much marred by men of Abstinence who know
Of Thee and all Thy loving Tavern-lore
Nothing, nor care for it one paltry Blow.
Yea, we ourselves, who beam around Thy Bowl,
Somewhat to dull Convention bow the Soul,
We sit in sable Trouserings and Boots,
Nor do the Vine-leaves deck a single Poll.
How could they bloom in uncongenial air?
Nor, though they bloomed profusely, should we wear
Upon our Heads—so tight is Habit's hold—
Aught else beside our own unaided Hair.
The Epoch curbs our Fancy. What is more
To BE, in any case, is now a Bore.
Even in Humor there is nothing new;
There is no Joke that was not made before.
But Thou! with what a fresh and poignant sting
Thy Muse remarked that Time was on the Wing!
Ah, Golden Age, when Virgin was the Soil,
And Decadence was deemed a newish Thing.
These picturesque departures now are stale;
The noblest Vices have their vogue and fail;
Through some inherent Taint or lack of Nerve
We cease to sin upon a generous scale.
This hour, though drinking at my Host's expense,
I fear to use a fine Incontinence,
For terror of the Law and him that waits
Outside, the unknown X, to hale us hence.
For, should he make of us an ill Report
As pipkins of the more loquacious Sort,
We might be lodged, the Lord alone knows where,
Save Peace were purchased with a pewter Quart.
And yet, O Lover of the purple Vine,
Haply Thy Ghost is watching how we dine;
Ah, let the Whither go; we'll take our chance
Of fourteen days with option of a Fine.
Master, if we, Thy Vessels, staunch and stout,
Should stagger, half-seas-over, blind with Doubt,
In sound of that dread moaning of the Bar,
Be near, be very near, to bail us out!
Owen Seaman.