My darling,—I have a thousand things to tell you, but I cannot possibly say them in rhyme, merely because the committee insists upon it. I send you herewith all the poetry which has been written in camp since last Monday, and it has been a very prosy week.
I have given them to papa, and he says that the best of my own, which are all bad enough, is the following hammock-song.
I thought it out while I was swinging Margery, and here it is!—
To—fro,
Dreamily, slow,
Under the trees;
Swing—swing,
Drowsily sing
The birds and the bees;
Sleep—rest,
Slumber is best,
Wakefulness sad;
Rest—sleep,
Forget how to weep,
Dream and be glad!
Papa says it is all nonsense to say that slumber is best and wakefulness sad; and that it is possible to tell the truth in poetry. Perhaps it is, but why don’t they do it oftener, then? And how was he to know that Polly and Jack had just gone through a terrible battle of words in which I was peacemaker, and that Dicky had been as naughty as—Nero—all day? These two circumstances made me look at the world through blue glasses, and that is always the time one longs to write poetry.
I send you also Geoff’s verses, written to mamma, and slipped into the box when we were playing Machine Poetry:—
I know a woman fair and calm,
Whose shining tender eyes
Make, when I meet their earnest gaze,
Sweet thoughts within me rise.And if all silver were her hair,
Or faded were her face,
She would not look to me less fair,
Nor lack a single grace.And if I were a little child,
With childhood’s timid trust,
I think my heart would fly to her,
And love—because it must!And if I were an earnest man,
With empty heart and life,
I think—(but I might change my mind)—
She’d be my chosen wife!
Isn’t that pretty? Oh, Elsie! I hope I shall grow old as beautifully as mamma does, so that people can write poetry to me if they feel like it! Here is Jack’s, for Polly’s birthday; he says he got the idea from a real poem which is just as silly as his:—
A pollywog from a wayside brook
Is a goodly gift for thee;
But a milk-white steed, or a venison sheep,
Will do very well for me.For you a quivering asphodel
(Two ducks and a good fat hen),
For me a withering hollyhock
(For seven and three are ten!).Rose-red locks and a pug for thee
(The falling dew is chill),
A dove, a rope, and a rose for me
(Oh, passionate, pale-blue pill!).For you a greenery, yallery gown
(Hath one tomb room for four?),
Dig me a narrow gravelet here
(Oh, red is the stain of gore!!).
I told Jack I thought it extremely unhitched, but he says that’s the chief beauty of the imitation.