The Chinese Nightingale and Other Poems Part 7

And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright?

No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer, But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.

That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old, Upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps.

("O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.") With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.

Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help, Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.

For every game they started out to play Yorick invented, in the days of old.

The times are out of joint! O cursed spite!

The n.o.ble jester Yorick comes no more.

And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.

Mae Marsh, Motion Picture Actress

In "Man's Genesis", "The Wild Girl of the Sierras", "The Wharf Rat", "A Girl of the Paris Streets", etc.

I

The arts are old, old as the stones From which man carved the sphinx austere.

Deep are the days the old arts bring: Ten thousand years of yesteryear.

II

She is madonna in an art As wild and young as her sweet eyes: A frail dew flower from this hot lamp That is today's divine surprise.

Despite raw lights and gloating mobs She is not seared: a picture still: Rare silk the fine director's hand May weave for magic if he will.

When ancient films have crumbled like Papyrus rolls of Egypt's day, Let the dust speak: "Her pride was high, All but the artist hid away:

"Kin to the myriad artist clan Since time began, whose work is dear."

The deep new ages come with her, Tomorrow's years of yesteryear.

Two Old Crows

Two old crows sat on a fence rail, Two old crows sat on a fence rail, Thinking of effect and cause, Of weeds and flowers, And nature's laws.

One of them muttered, one of them stuttered, One of them stuttered, one of them muttered.

Each of them thought far more than he uttered.

One crow asked the other crow a riddle.

One crow asked the other crow a riddle: The muttering crow Asked the stuttering crow, "Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?

Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?"

"Bee-cause," said the other crow, "Bee-cause, B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause."

Just then a bee flew close to their rail:-- "Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ."

And those two black crows Turned pale, And away those crows did sail.

Why?

B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.

B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.

"Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZ."

The Drunkard's Funeral

"Yes," said the sister with the little pinched face, The busy little sister with the funny little tract:-- "This is the climax, the grand fifth act.

There rides the proud, at the finish of his race.

There goes the hea.r.s.e, the mourners cry, The respectable hea.r.s.e goes slowly by.

The wife of the dead has money in her purse, The children are in health, so it might have been worse.

That fellow in the coffin led a life most foul.

A fierce defender of the red bar-tender, At the church he would rail, At the preacher he would howl.

He planted every deviltry to see it grow.

He wasted half his income on the lewd and the low.

He would trade engender for the red bar-tender, He would homage render to the red bar-tender, And in ultimate surrender to the red bar-tender, He died of the tremens, as crazy as a loon, And his friends were glad, when the end came soon.

There goes the hea.r.s.e, the mourners cry, The respectable hea.r.s.e goes slowly by.

And now, good friends, since you see how it ends, Let each nation-mender flay the red bar-tender,-- Abhor The transgression Of the red bar-tender,-- Ruin The profession Of the red bar-tender: Force him into business where his work does good.

Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood, Let him learn how to plough, let him learn to chop wood.

"The moral, The conclusion, The verdict now you know:-- 'The saloon must go, The saloon must go, The saloon, The saloon, The saloon, Must go.'"

"You are right, little sister," I said to myself, "You are right, good sister," I said.

"Though you wear a mussy bonnet On your little gray head, You are right, little sister," I said.

The Raft

The whole world on a raft! A King is here, The record of his grandeur but a smear.

Is it his deacon-beard, or old bald pate That makes the band upon his whims to wait?

Loot and mud-honey have his soul defiled.

Quack, pig, and priest, he drives camp-meetings wild Until they shower their pennies like spring rain That he may preach upon the Spanish main.

What landlord, lawyer, voodoo-man has yet A better native right to make men sweat?

The whole world on a raft! A Duke is here At sight of whose lank jaw the muses leer.