A line-o'-verse or two

Footing the trail that Memory knows,
Over the hills and far away.

I have only a pipe to fill:
Weaving, wreathing rings disclose
A trail that flings straight up the hill,
Straight as an arrow’s flight. For those
Who fare by night the pole star glows
Above the mountain top. By day
A blasted pine the pathway shows
Over the hills and far away.

The Ancient Wood is white and chill,
But what know I of wintry woes?
The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will —
Naught may hinder and none oppose.
Such the power the pipe bestows,
When the wilderness calls I may
Tramping go, as I smoke and doze,
Over the hills and far away.

L’Envoi

Deep in the canyons lie the snows:
They shall vanish if I but say —
If my fancy a-roving goes
Over the hills and far away.

POST-VACATIONAL

You have heard that mildewed story,
That tradition horned and hoary,
That it wearies one to roam,
Past a doubt;
That one vainly on vacation
Tries to find recuperation,
Till he hunts his happy home
Tuckered out.

That abroad there is no comfort,
That a man must journey home for ’t —
You have heard that whiskered wheeze,
Have you not?
’Tis a commonplace to cavil
At the “luxuries of travel,”
For in travel lack of ease
Is your lot.

You have heard that gag historic;
It was often sprung by Yorick;
It’s as old as Noah’s ark
And its crew.
It’s the commonest (at basis)
Of all common commonplaces; —
So I merely would remark
That – it’s true.

THE BARDS WE QUOTE

Whene’er I quote I seldom take
From bards whom angel hosts environ;
But usually some damned rake
Like Byron.

Of Whittier I think a lot,
My fancy to him often turns;
But when I quote ’tis some such sot
As Burns.

I’m very fond of Bryant, too,
He brings to me the woodland smelly;
Why should I quote that “village roo,”
P. Shelley?

I think Felicia Hemans great,
I dote upon Jean Ingelow;
Yet quote from such a reprobate
As Poe.

To quote from drunkard or from rake
Is not a proper thing to do.
I find the habit hard to break,
Don’t you?

THE PERSISTENT POET

“I remember, I remember” —
Something special? Not a bit.
But, you see, this is November,
And Remember rimes with it.

HENCE THESE RIMES

Tho’ my verse is exact,
Tho’ it flawlessly flows,
As a matter of fact
I would rather write prose.

While my harp is in tune,
And I sing like the birds,