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Cobwebs from a Library Corner
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THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER
When I was twenty-one, I swore,
If I should ever wed,
The maiden that I should adore
Should have a classic head;
Should have a form quite Junoesque;
A manner full of grace;
A wealth of hirsute picturesque
Above a piquant face.
But I, alas! am perjured, for
I’ve wed a dumpy lass
I much despised in days of yore,
Of quite the plainest class,
Because each maiden of my dream,
Whose favor I did seek,
Was so opposed unto my scheme
I married Jane in pique.
MAID OF CULTURE
Maid of culture, ere we part,
Since we’ve talked of letters, art,
Science, faith, and hypnotism,
And ’most every other ism,
When you wrote, a while ago,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ,
Let me tell you this, my dear:
Though your lettering was clear,
Though the ancient sages Greek
Would be glad to hear you speak,
They would be replete with woe
At your μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ.
For, dear maiden most astute,
You have placed the mark acute
O’er omega. Take your specs.
See? It should be circumflex.
Still I love you, even though
You have written ἀγαπώ.
NOT PERFECT
Her eyes are blue – a lovely hue
For eyes; her cheeks are pink,
And for the cheek, ’twixt me and you,
That color’s right, I think.
Her fingers taper prettily,
Her teeth are white as pearls —
Her hands seem softer far to me
Than any other girl’s.
Her figure’s trim – it is petite —
I like them just that way,
And truly, maiden half so sweet
You’d not find every day.
And yet, alas! she’s not my choice,
This creature of my rhyme —
Because her soft and rich-toned voice
Is going all the time.
A CITY DWELLER’S WISH
I love the leaf of the old oak-tree,
I love the gum of the spruce,
I love the bark of the hickory,
And I love the maple’s juice.
On the walnut’s grain I fondly dote,
On the cherry’s fruit I’d dine,
And I love to lie in a narrow boat,
And scent the odor of pine.
Ah, me! how I wish some power grand
Would invent some single tree
With all these points well developed, and
Would send that tree to me!
I’d plant it deep in the jardinière
That stands in this flat of mine;
I’d give it the sweetest, tenderest care,
And water its roots with wine.
WHERE ARE THEY?
What has become of the cast-off coats
That covered Will Shakespeare’s back?
What has become of the old row-boats
Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley’s cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store
Of Queen Elizabeth’s ruffs?
Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
When I was twenty-one, I swore,
If I should ever wed,
The maiden that I should adore
Should have a classic head;
Should have a form quite Junoesque;
A manner full of grace;
A wealth of hirsute picturesque
Above a piquant face.
But I, alas! am perjured, for
I’ve wed a dumpy lass
I much despised in days of yore,
Of quite the plainest class,
Because each maiden of my dream,
Whose favor I did seek,
Was so opposed unto my scheme
I married Jane in pique.
MAID OF CULTURE
Maid of culture, ere we part,
Since we’ve talked of letters, art,
Science, faith, and hypnotism,
And ’most every other ism,
When you wrote, a while ago,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ,
Let me tell you this, my dear:
Though your lettering was clear,
Though the ancient sages Greek
Would be glad to hear you speak,
They would be replete with woe
At your μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπώ.
For, dear maiden most astute,
You have placed the mark acute
O’er omega. Take your specs.
See? It should be circumflex.
Still I love you, even though
You have written ἀγαπώ.
NOT PERFECT
Her eyes are blue – a lovely hue
For eyes; her cheeks are pink,
And for the cheek, ’twixt me and you,
That color’s right, I think.
Her fingers taper prettily,
Her teeth are white as pearls —
Her hands seem softer far to me
Than any other girl’s.
Her figure’s trim – it is petite —
I like them just that way,
And truly, maiden half so sweet
You’d not find every day.
And yet, alas! she’s not my choice,
This creature of my rhyme —
Because her soft and rich-toned voice
Is going all the time.
A CITY DWELLER’S WISH
I love the leaf of the old oak-tree,
I love the gum of the spruce,
I love the bark of the hickory,
And I love the maple’s juice.
On the walnut’s grain I fondly dote,
On the cherry’s fruit I’d dine,
And I love to lie in a narrow boat,
And scent the odor of pine.
Ah, me! how I wish some power grand
Would invent some single tree
With all these points well developed, and
Would send that tree to me!
I’d plant it deep in the jardinière
That stands in this flat of mine;
I’d give it the sweetest, tenderest care,
And water its roots with wine.
WHERE ARE THEY?
What has become of the cast-off coats
That covered Will Shakespeare’s back?
What has become of the old row-boats
Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley’s cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store
Of Queen Elizabeth’s ruffs?
Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
Другие электронные книги автора John Bangs
Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее