Cobwebs from a Library Corner, John Kendrick Bangs [autobiographies to read txt] 📗

kinds of human feeling.

The records of the stars he knows, and each
Romance that round about the heavens lingers.
At dinner-time he oft delights to preach
On which was made the first, or forks or fingers.

Indeed, all things he knows, or high or low—
The things that fly on wing, or go a-walking—
Except one thing he never seems to know,
And that’s when he should stop his endless talking.



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?
Where are Marc Antony’s clothes?
Where are the gloves from Antoinette’s hand?
Where Oliver Goldsmith’s hose?

I do not search for the ships of Tyre—
The grave of Whittington’s cat
Would sooner set my spirit on fire—
Or even Beau Brummel’s hat.

And when I reflect that there are spots
In the world that I can’t find,
Where lie these same identical lots,
And many of this same kind,

I’m tempted to give a store of gold
To him that will bring to me
A glass, Earth’s mysteries to unfold,
And show me where these things be.



MEMORIES


YON maiden once a jester did adore,
Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps.
Once in a while she reads his best jokes o’er
And sits her down and madly, sorely weeps.



A SAD STATE


I KNOW a man in Real Estate,
Whose pride of self’s sublime.
He’d like to be a poet great
But “can’t afford the time.”


AD ASTRA PER OTIUM


AS I read over old John Dryden’s verse,
The rhymes of men like William Blake, and Gay,
The stuff that helped fill Edmund Waller’s purse,
And that which placed on Marvell’s brow the bay,

It doth appear to me that in those times
The Muses quaffed not sparkling wine, but grog,
And that to grow immortal through one’s rhymes
Was ’bout as hard as falling off a log.



CONSOLATION


SHAKESPEARE was not accounted great
When good Queen Bess ruled England’s state,
So why should I to-day repine
Because the laurel is not mine?

Perhaps in twenty-ninety-three
Folks will begin to talk of me,
And somewhere statues may be built
Of me, in bronze, perhaps in gilt,

And sages full of quips and quirks
Will wonder if I wrote my works.
So why should I repine to-day
Because my brow wears not the bay?



SATISFACTION

ON READING “NOT ONE DISSATISFIED,” BY WALT WHITMAN


GOD spare the day when I am satisfied!
Enough is truly likened to a feast that leaves man satiate.
The sluggishness of fulness comes apace; the dulness of a mind that
knows all things.
The lack of every sweet desire; no new sensation for the soul!
To want no more?
What vile estate is that?
What holds the morrow for the soul that’s satisfied?
What holds the future for the mind content?
Is aspiration worthless?
Is much-abused ambition then so vile?
What is the essence of the joy of living?
Must yesterday, to-morrow, and to-day all be the same,
With nothing to be hoped for?
Is not a soul athirst a joyous thing?
Where lies content to him whose eye doth rest on higher things?
What satiation can compare to hope?
Yet who among the satisfied hath need of hope?
What can he hope for if he’s satisfied?
’Tis but conceit, and nothing more, to prate of satisfaction!
God spare the day when I am satisfied!
I do not want the earth,
Yet nothing less will leave me quite content;
And once ’tis mine,
I’m very sure you’ll find me roaming off
After the universe!



TO A WITHERED ROSE


THY span of life was all too short—
A week or two at best—
From budding-time, through blossoming,
To withering and rest.

Yet compensation hast thou—aye!—
For all thy little woes;
For was it not thy happy lot
To live and die a rose?



THE WORST OF ENEMIES


I DO not fear an enemy
Who all his days hath hated me.

I do not bother o’er a foe
Whose name and face I do not know.

I mind me not the small attack
Of him who bites behind my back:

But Heaven help me to the end
’Gainst that one who was once my friend.



JOKES OF THE NIGHT


BLESSED jokes of my dreams! Your praises I’d sing.
No mirth can compare to the mirth that you bring.
I’ve read London _Punch_ from beginning to end,
On all comic papers much money I spend,
But naught that is in them can ever seem bright
Beside the rich jokes that I dream of at night.

How I laugh at those jests of my brain when at rest,
The gladdest and merriest, sweetest and best!
And how, when I wake in the morning and try
To call them to mind, oh how bashful, how shy
They seem, how they scatter and hide out of sight—
Those jokes of my dreamings, those jests of the night!

Take the one that came to me to-day just at dawn:
The Cable-Car turns and remarks to the Prawn,
“The Crowbar is seasick; but then what of that,
As long as the Camel won’t wear a silk hat?”
I laughed—why, I laughed till my wife had a fright
For fear I’d go wild from that joke of the night.

And they’re all much like that one—elusive enough,
Yet full of facetious, hilarious stuff—
Stuff past comprehension, stuff no man dares tell;
For nocturnal jests, e’en told ever so well—
’Tis odd it should be so—are not often bright,
Except to the dreamer who dreams them at night.



AN AUTUMNAL ROMANCE


A LEAF fell in love with the soft green lawn,
He deemed her the sweetest and best,
And then on a dreary November dawn
He withered and