Though thy gloves thou tiest,
To the curtain string,
Though the things thou driest
Gird me while I sing,
Hankies and inventions
Of the lacy tribe—
Things I may not mention,
Let alone describe.
These I mutely stand for
Though the sight offend,
THIS I reprimand for;
Take it from a friend:
Cease to pin thy tresses
To the window sill,
Or I'll tell the presses—
Honestly, I will.
How?
How can I work when you play the piano,
Feminine person above?
How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano
Singing: "Ah, Love—"?
How can I dream of a subject aesthetic,
Far from the purlieus of prose?
How, with the call of the peripatetic
"High! High cash clo'es!"?
How can I write when the children are crying?
How can I poetize—how?
How can I help imper_fect_ versifying?
(There is some now.)
How can I bathe in the thought—waves of
beauty?
How, with my nerves on the slant,
Can I perform my poetical duty?
Frankly, I can't.
Ballade of the Breakfast Table
When the Festal Board, as the papers say,
Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat,
At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner,
(As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat)
At breakfast, then, if I may repeat,
This is what gets me into a huff,
This is a query I cannot beat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?