A line-o'-verse or two

Mabie is reading the summer books.

The suns are at pause in the cosmic race;
The mills of the gods have ceased to grind;
The only sound that is heard in space
Is the rhythmic clicking of Mabie’s mind.
Elsewhere silence, or near or far —
Chattering Pleiads or babbling brooks;
For the whisper has passed from star to star:
“Mabie is reading the summer books.”

THE VANISHED FAY

Tell me, whither do they go,
All the Little Ones we know?
They “grow up” before our eyes,
And the fairy spirit flies.
Time the Piper, pied and gay —
Does he lure them all away?
Do they follow after him,
Over the horizon’s brim?

Daughter’s growing fair to see,
Slim and straight as popple tree.
Still a child in heart and head,
But – the fairy spirit’s fled.
As a fay at break of day,
Little One has flown away,
On the stroke of fairy bell —
When and whither, who can tell?

Still her childish fancies weave
In the Land of Make Believe;
And her love of magic lore
Is as avid as before.
Dollies big and dollies small
Still are at her beck and call.
But for all this pleasant play,
Little One has gone away.

Whither, whither have they flown,
All the fays we all have known?
To what “faery lands forlorn”
On the sound of elfin horn?
As she were a woodland sprite,
Little One has vanished quite.
Waves the wand of Oberon:
Cock has crowed – the fay is gone!

AUTUMN REVERY

When the leaves are falling crimson
And the worm is off its feed,
When the rag weed and the jimson
Have agreed to go to seed,
When the air in forest bowers
Has a tang like Rhenish wine,
And to breathe it for two hours
Makes you feel you’d like to dine,
When the frost is on the pumpkin
And the corn is in the shock,
And the cheek of country bumpkin
City faces seems to mock, —
When you come across a ditty
(Like this one) of Autumn’s charm,
Then it’s pleasant in the city,
Where they keep the houses warm.

THE RECOIL

I met a friend of lofty brow —
As lofty as the laws allow.
I said to him, “You’ll know, I’m sure —
What’s doing now in litrychoor?”
Said he: “I hate the very name;
I’m weary of the blooming game.
I read, whenever I have time,
Something by Phillips Oppenheim.”

“Cheer up!” said I. “What’s new in Art? —
You drift around the picture mart.
What do you think of Mr. Blum? —
Some say he’s great, some say he’s bum.”
“I’m strong for Blum,” my friend replied;
“His pictures are so queer and pied.
I wouldn’t change them if I could;
I’d rather have things queer than good.”

I spoke of this, I spoke of that,
But everything was stale and flat.
Said I, “You once adored the chaste,
You used to have such perfect taste.”
“Good taste,” he wailed, “brings but distress,
’Tis an affliction, nothing less;
While those whose taste is punk and vile
Are happy all the blessed while.”

“Oh, take a brace, old man!” said I.
“Let me prescribe a nip of rye,
And then we’ll go to see a play;