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.