Impertinent Poems Part 7

Counterfeit kisses you paid, and got Just what you paid for--which is what?

Man of adroitness, place and power, Trampled above and torn below; Set in the light of your noonday hour, Playing a part in the public show; Fooling the mob that the mob be ruled: You know which is the greater fooled.

Artist of pencil, or paint, or pen, Reed, or string, or the vocal note, Making the soul to suffer again And the wild heart clutch the throat; Ever your fancy has paid in fact; You rack my soul, as yours was racked.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The Trifle of Innocence"

_Page 60._]

THE BUBBLE-FLIES.

Let me read a homily Concerning an anomaly I view In you.

Whatever you are striving for, Whatever you are driving for, 'T is not alone because you crave To be successful that you slave To swim upon the topmost wave.

You care less what your station is, But more what your relation is.

To be a bit above the rest!

To be upon, or of, the crest!

Ah! that is where the trouble lies Which stirs you little bubble-flies.

(I sneer these sneers, but just the same I keep my fingers in the game.) See! you have eat-and-drinkables And portables and thinkables And yet You fret.

For what? Let's reach the heart of you And see the funny part of you.

For what? I find the soul and seed Of it is not your lack or need, Or even merely vulgar greed.

Gold? You may have a store of it, But someone else has more of it.

Fame? Pretty things are said of you, But--some one is ahead of you.

Place? You disprize your easy one For some one's high and breezy one.

(I smile these smiles to soothe my soul, But squint one eye upon the goal.)

Tell me! what's your capacity Compared to your voracity?

_I_ guess 'T is less.

And so I strike these att.i.tudes And tender you these plat.i.tudes;-- Not wis.h.i.+ng wealth, or spurning it, Not h.o.a.rding it, or burning it Is equal to the earning it.

Life's race is in the riding it, Not in the word deciding it.

And after all is said and uttered The keenest taste is bread-and-b.u.t.tered.

(And yet--and yet--my palate aches For pallid pie and pasty cakes!)

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Bubble-Flies

_Page 61._]

QUALIFIED.

I love to see my friend succeed; I love to praise him; yes, indeed!

And so, no doubt, do you.

But will you tell me why it is The praise we parcel out as his So often goes askew, And ends by running in the rut Of "if," "except" or "but"?

"Boggs is a clever chap. His trade Is doubling yearly, and he's made A fortune all right, but----"

"Sharp is elected. Well, I say!

He'll hit a high mark yet, some day, If----" (here one eye is shut).

"Such acting! Why, I laughed and wept!

Fobb's art is great--except."

"Miss Hautton has such queenly grace.

And then her figure and her face!

She'd be a beauty if----"

"And Mrs. Follol entertains With so much taste and so much pains; But----" (here a little sniff).

"And Mrs. Caste has ever kept The narrow path--except."

I wish some man were great and good That I might praise him all I could And never add a "but."

I would that some would value me And never hint what I would be "If"--but why cavil? Tut!

Eternal justice still is kept And Heaven is good--except!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Yesterday's laurels are dry and dead

_Page 65._]

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Do you lazily nurse your knee and muse?

Do you contemplate your conquering thews With a critical satisfaction?

But yesterday's laurels are dry and dead And to-morrow's triumph is still ahead; To-day is the day for action.

Yesterday's sun: is it s.h.i.+ning still?

To-morrow's dawn: will its coming fill To-day, if to-day's light fail us?

Not so. The past is forever past; To-day's is the hand which holds us fast, And to-morrow may never hail us.

The present and only the present endures, So it's hey for to-day! for to-day is yours For the goal you are still pursuing.

What you have done is a little amount; What you will do is of lesser account, But the test is, what are you doing?

THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR.

Mc.u.mphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs.

Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues, And his topic--himself--is worth talking about, But he works it so much he has frazzled it out.

He never will give me my half of a chance To chip in my own little, clever romance In the first person singular. Yes, and they say, He offended you, too, in a similar way.