I've broken my fast with the grave and gay,
With hoi polloi and with the elite;
I've been all over the U. S. A.
From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street.
But aye when I sit in the morning seat
Comes to my notice the self-same bluff,
Plenty of food, but in this they cheat:
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Take it at breakfast, only to-day:
This was the layout, fresh and sweet:
Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;[Footnote: And about as edible.]
Cereal—one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.]
of wheat;
Soft—boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat);
Coffee (a claro—manila—buff);
Napery, china, and glasses complete—
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
L'ENVOI
Autocratesses, forgive my heat,
But isn't it time to change that stuff?
Small is the benison I entreat—
Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Ornithology
Unlearned I in ornithology—
All I know about the birds
Is a bunch of etymology,
Just a lot of high—flown words.
Is the curlew an uxorial
Bird? The Latin name for crow?
Is the bulfinch grallatorial?
I dunno.
O'er my head no golden gloriole
Ever shall be proudly set
For my knowledge of the oriole,
Eagle, ibis, or egrette.
I know less about the tanager
And its hopes and fears and aims
Than a busy Broadway manager
Does of James.
But, despite my incapacity
On the birdies of the air,
I am not without sagacity,
Be it ne'er so small a share.
This I know, though ye be scorning at
What I know not, though ye mock,
Birdies wake me every morning at
Four o'clock.
To Alice—Sit—By—The—Hour
Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across the way,
One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all the livelong day,
Idly looking out your window from your vantage point above.
Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? Are you in love?