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Complete Poetical Works
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You wished—I remember it well,
And I loved you the more for that wish—
For a perfect cystedian shell
And a WHOLE holocephalic fish.
And oh, if Earth's strata contains
In its lowest Silurian drift,
Or palaeozoic remains
The same, 'tis your lover's free gift!
Then come, love, and never say nay,
But calm all your maidenly fears;
We'll note, love, in one summer's day
The record of millions of years;
And though the Darwinian plan
Your sensitive feelings may shock,
We'll find the beginning of man,
Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
AVITOR
(AN AERIAL RETROSPECT)
What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!
What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!
Avitor!
What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The roc that brought Sindbad across,
The Calendar's own winged horse!
Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,—
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!
What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson's gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!
My first ascent I may not tell;
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell.
Avitor!
My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions, and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas.
Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies.
Avitor!
THE WILLOWS
(AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE)
The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year.
Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—
At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland down here.
Here, once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,—
Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,—
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.
I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
And I loved you the more for that wish—
For a perfect cystedian shell
And a WHOLE holocephalic fish.
And oh, if Earth's strata contains
In its lowest Silurian drift,
Or palaeozoic remains
The same, 'tis your lover's free gift!
Then come, love, and never say nay,
But calm all your maidenly fears;
We'll note, love, in one summer's day
The record of millions of years;
And though the Darwinian plan
Your sensitive feelings may shock,
We'll find the beginning of man,
Our fossil ancestors, in rock!
AVITOR
(AN AERIAL RETROSPECT)
What was it filled my youthful dreams,
In place of Greek or Latin themes,
Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?
Avitor!
What visions and celestial scenes
I filled with aerial machines,
Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!
Avitor!
What fairy tales seemed things of course!
The roc that brought Sindbad across,
The Calendar's own winged horse!
Avitor!
How many things I took for facts,—
Icarus and his conduct lax,
And how he sealed his fate with wax!
Avitor!
The first balloons I sought to sail,
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.
Avitor!
What made me launch from attic tall
A kitten and a parasol,
And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
Avitor!
What youthful dreams of high renown
Bade me inflate the parson's gown,
That went not up, nor yet came down?
Avitor!
My first ascent I may not tell;
Enough to know that in that well
My first high aspirations fell.
Avitor!
My other failures let me pass:
The dire explosions, and, alas!
The friends I choked with noxious gas.
Avitor!
For lo! I see perfected rise
The vision of my boyish eyes,
The messenger of upper skies.
Avitor!
THE WILLOWS
(AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE)
The skies they were ashen and sober,
The streets they were dirty and drear;
It was night in the month of October,
Of my most immemorial year.
Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,
As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—
At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober,
And the willowy woodland down here.
Here, once in an alley Titanic
Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,—
Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul;
They were days when my heart was volcanic,
And impelled me to frequently roll,
And made me resistlessly roll,
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
In the realms of the Boreal pole,—
Till my ten-strikes created a panic
With the monkey atop of his pole.
I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—
My thoughts were decidedly queer;
For I knew not the month was October,
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Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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