MISS LEGION
She is hotfoot after Cultyure,
She pursues it with a club.
She breathes a heavy atmosphere
Of literary flub.
No literary shrine so far
But she is there to kneel;
But—
Her favorite line of reading
Is O. Meredith’s “Lucille.”
Of course she’s up on pictures—
Passes for a connoisseur.
On free days at the Institute
You’ll always notice her.
She qualifies approval
Of a Titian or Corot;
But—
She throws a fit of rapture
When she comes to Bouguereau.
And when you talk of music,
She is Music’s devotee.
She will tell you that Beethoven
Always makes her wish to pray;
And “dear old Bach!” His very name
She says, her ear enchants;
But—
Her favorite piece is Weber’s
“Invitation to the Dance.”
A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME
I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings—
The weekly music of the London Sphere—
That deathless tomes the living present brings:
Great literature is with us year on year.
Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere,
Remind me I can make my books sublime.
But prithee, bay my brow while I am here:
Why do we always wait for Death and Time?