A sparkling morning after weeks of rain; All fresh and fragrant glows my world, new-made. Bluebirds sing ballads; sparrows chirp refrain; Old Mother Spider, peering from the shade, With gastronomic joy surveys a fly, Her table-cloth hung on a bush to dry.
A little lizard creeps from out his crack To bask in sunshine till he’s done quite brown; A butterfly starts on her breathless track, Her errand gay, to lure a lad from town; Even the garden’s foe, the slimy snail, Leaves on the walk an iridescent trail.
Fat Doctor Robin now comes hurrying by, His neat attire touched up with claret vest. “Important case!” I see it in his eye. “No time to sing, with babies in that nest.” Quick! little doctor! _Will_ he catch the train? Sudden he stops; my heart jumps to my throat. “Thunder and Mars!” I hear him say quite plain, “I’ve left my wallet in my other coat!”
[Illustration: NOISE EXTRACTED WITHOUT PAIN
~Waiter~ (to single gentleman):--“Excuse me, sir, but that lady and gentleman wish me to recommend to you one of those new Maxim soup silencers!”]
(A more-than-symbolic sonnet for a picture of the same sort by George Wolfe Plank)
Urged by the peacocks of our vanity, Up the frail tree of life we climb and grope; About our heads the tragic branches slope, Heavy with time and xanthic mystery.
Beyond, the brooding bird of fate we see Viewing the world with eyes forever ope’, And lured by all the phantom fruits of hope, We cling in anguish to this fragile tree.
O lowering skies! O clouds, that point in scorn, With the lean fingers of a wrinkled wrath! O dedal moon, that rears its ghostly horn!
O hidden stars, that tread the cosmic path! Shall we attain the glory of the morn, Or sink into some awful aftermath!
The cubist damosel leaned out From a neurotic heaven; Her face was stranger than the dreams Of topers filled at even: She had four facets to her nose, And the eyes in her head were seven.
Her robe, concrete from clasp to hem, Six angles did adorn, With a white parallelogram For trimming neatly worn: Her hair rose up in pentagons, Like yellow ears of corn.
It was a post-impression house That she was standing on; While maudlin quadrilateral clouds O’er mystic gardens spun, And three denatured greyhounds ran Circlewise round the sun.