New Poems Part 16

THERE'S just a twinkle in your eye That seems to say I _might_, if I Were only bold enough to try An arm about your waist.

I hear, too, as you come and go, That pretty nervous laugh, you know; And then your cap is always so Coquettishly displaced.

Your cap! the word's profanely said.

That little top-knot, white and red, That quaintly crowns your graceful head, No bigger than a flower, Is set with such a witching art, Is so provocatively smart, I'd like to wear it on my heart, An order for an hour!

O graceful housemaid, tall and fair, I love your shy imperial air, And always loiter on the stair When you are going by.

A strict reserve the fates demand; But, when to let you pa.s.s I stand, Sometimes by chance I touch your hand And sometimes catch your eye.

TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND BLUE

TO all that love the far and blue: Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot The fleeing corners ye pursue, Nor weary of the vain pursuit; Or whether down the singing stream, Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot, To splash beside the splas.h.i.+ng bream Or anchor by the willow root:

Or, bolder, from the narrow sh.o.r.e Put forth, that cedar ark to steer, Among the seabirds and the roar Of the great sea, profound and clear; Or, lastly if in heart ye roam, Not caring to do else, and hear, Safe sitting by the fire at home, Footfalls in Utah or Pamere:

Though long the way, though hard to bear The sun and rain, the dust and dew; Though still attainment and despair Inter the old, despoil the new; There shall at length, be sure, O friends, Howe'er ye steer, whate'er ye do- At length, and at the end of ends, The golden city come in view.

THOU STRAINEST THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN FERN

(A FRAGMENT)

THOU strainest through the mountain fern, A most exiguously thin Burn.

For all thy foam, for all thy din, Thee shall the pallid lake inurn, With well-a-day for Mr. Swin- Burne!

Take then this quarto in thy fin And, O thou stoker huge and stern, The whole affair, outside and in, Burn!

But save the true poetic kin, The works of Mr. Robert Burn'

And William Wordsworth upon Tin- Tern!

TO ROSABELLE

WHEN my young lady has grown great and staid, And in long raiment wondrously arrayed, She may take pleasure with a smile to know How she delighted men-folk long ago.

For her long after, then, this tale I tell Of the two fans and fairy Rosabelle.

Hot was the day; her weary sire and I Sat in our chairs companionably nigh, Each with a headache sat her sire and I.

Instant the hostess waked: she viewed the scene, Divined the giants' languor by their mien, And with hospitable care Tackled at once an Atlantean chair.

Her pigmy stature scarce attained the seat- She dragged it where she would, and with her feet Surmounted; thence, a Phaeton launched, she crowned The vast plateau of the piano, found And culled a pair of fans; wherewith equipped, Our mountaineer back to the level slipped; And being landed, with considerate eyes, Betwixt her elders dealt her double prize; The small to me, the greater to her sire.

As painters now advance and now retire Before the growing canvas, and anon Once more approach and put the climax on: So she awhile withdrew, her piece she viewed- For half a moment half supposed it good- Spied her mistake, nor sooner spied than ran To remedy; and with the greater fan, In gracious better thought, equipped the guest.

From ill to well, from better on to best, Arts move; the homely, like the plastic kind; And high ideals fired that infant mind.

Once more she backed, once more a s.p.a.ce apart Considered and reviewed her work of art: Doubtful at first, and gravely yet awhile; Till all her features blossomed in a smile.

And the child, waking at the call of bliss, To each she ran, and took and gave a kiss.

NOW BARE TO THE BEHOLDER'S EYE

NOW bare to the beholder's eye Your late denuded bindings lie, Subsiding slowly where they fell, A disinvested citadel; The obdurate corset, Cupid's foe, The Dutchman's breeches frilled below.

Those that the lover notes to note, And white and crackling petticoat.

From these, that on the ground repose, Their lady lately re-arose; And laying by the lady's name, A living woman re-became.

Of her, that from the public eye They do enclose and fortify, Now, lying scattered as they fell, An indiscreeter tale they tell: Of that more soft and secret her Whose daylong fortresses they were, By fading warmth, by lingering print, These now discarded scabbards hint.

A twofold change the ladies know: First, in the morn the bugles blow, And they, with floral hues and scents, Man their beribboned battlements.

But let the stars appear, and they Shed inhumanities away; And from the changeling fas.h.i.+on see, Through comic and through sweet degree, In nature's toilet unsurpa.s.sed, Forth leaps the laughing girl at last.

THE BOUR-TREE DEN

CLINk.u.m-CLANK in the rain they ride, Down by the braes and the grey sea-side; Clink.u.m-clank by stane and cairn, Weary fa' their horse-shoe-airn!

Loud on the causey, saft on the sand, Round they rade by the tail of the land; Round and up by the Bour-Tree Den, Weary fa' the red-coat men!

Aft hae I gane where they hae rade And straigled in the gowden brooms- Aft hae I gane, a saikless maid, And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms!

Wi' swords and guns they wanton there, Wi' red, red coats and braw, braw plumes.

But I gaed wi' my gowden hair, And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms!

I ran, a little hempie la.s.s, In the sand and the bent gra.s.s, Or took and kilted my small coats To play in the beached fisher-boats.

I waded deep and I ran fast, I was as lean as a lugger's mast, I was as brown as a fisher's creel, And I liked my life unco weel.

They blew a trumpet at the cross, Some forty men, both foot and horse.

A'body cam to hear and see, And wha, among the rest, but me.

My lips were saut wi' the saut air, My face was brown, my feet were bare The wind had ravelled my taut.i.t hair, And I thought shame to be standing there.

Ae man there in the thick of the throng Sat in his saddle, straight and strong.

I looked at him and he at me, And he was a master-man to see.

. . . And who is this yin? and who is yon That has the bonny lendings on?

That sits and looks sae braw and crouse?

. . . Mister Frank o' the Big House!

I gaed my lane beside the sea; The wind it blew in bush and tree, The wind blew in bush and bent: Muckle I saw, and muckle kent!

Between the beach and the sea-hill I sat my lane and grat my fill- I was sae clarty and hard and dark, And like the kye in the cow park!