From the New York Tribune, January 5, 1913. By Christopher Marlowe. Come, live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and field And all the craggy mountains yield. There we will sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move Come, live with me and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.
Author: desperaudio
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The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
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A Pastoral Tragedy
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 4, 1913. The passionate shepherd His lot doth lament; Sweet Phyllida left him— One morning she went. Some say ’twas an actor Who led her astray, And some say a chauffeur Upon the “White Way.” Alone on the hillside The desolate swain Sheds tears of deep sorrow That shower like rain. His pipe is neglected, He singeth no more, His flock is a-straying The wide country o’er. She spoke of his manners As boorish and rude, When she would a lover With polish endued. Then shortly she left him, The hard-hearted girl; Grown tired of day-dreaming, She longed for a whirl. A Shepard, she knew it, Saw little of life; She’d be in the swim as An actor-man’s wife. Or was it a chauffeur? We really can’t say, But sad is the shepherd Since she went away.
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Jimmy’s Diagnosis
From the Perth Amboy Evening News, January 3, 1913. My pa says, “Step lively, son, An’ do as you are bid.” My sister, too, the biggest one, Calls out, “I want you, kid!” Ma wants some kindlin’ from below Or somethin’ else like that, An’ grandpa’s goin’ out, an’ so I’ve got to hunt his hat. If I start out to go an’ play— It doesn’t matter when— Somebody ‘fore I get away Will call me back again. An’ when they git me back about? The only thing they do Is look at me an’ holler out, “I’ve got a job for you!” It makes no difference how I try, Them jobs is never done. ‘Cause ‘fore I git one finished, why, They find another one. An’ if I have some doggone task An’ go to play instead They all say they’re surprised an’ ask, “Whatever ails the kid?” You bet I know what ails me too. I ain’t no reg’lar dunce. They always want that I should do Too many jobs at once. But I don’t see why they should call Me “lazybones.” Well, yes, The thing that ails me most of all Is too much folks, I guess.
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The Secrets of the Sea
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 2, 1913. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ah, what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams come back to me. Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors And the answer from the shore! Most of all the Spanish ballad Haunts one oft and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailors mystic song. Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines With a soft, monotonous cadence Flow its unrhymed lyric lines— Telling how the count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley Steering onward to the land— How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear— Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried with impulse strong— “Helmsman! For the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!” “Wouldst thou (so the helmsman answered), Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery.” In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landyard blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies— Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
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New Year’s Resolutions
From The Seattle Star, January 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. We won’t be too ambitious in a resoluting way, We’ll plan on very little of the new deal stuff. For neither Rome nor Athens was completed in a day And reforming’s not accomplished by a great big bluff. We’re going to take it gently and by stages and degrees; Our goodness will not raise us to a higher sphere. But we’ll try to show improvement in our actions, if you please, And be a LITTLE better than we were last year! We shan’t upset the country by our thoughtfulness and care, We’ll go on being selfish to a large extent. But may be there’ll be troubles we can kind of help to share, And maybe we’ll be gentler in our temperament; We shall not have a halo for the charity we do (A mortal with a halo would be mighty queer) But we’ll moderate our tempers—(can we count a bit on you?) And we’ll be a LITTLE kinder than we were last year! We won’t be too ambitious in the matter of reform, But we’ll be a little better if we find we can. And where the market’s crowded and the game is getting warm We’ll be a little nicer to our fellow man. We shan’t be shining angels and we wouldn’t if we could, We only hope for progress and we start right here. We want to be—not perfect, or even “goody good!”— But Better Human Beings than we were last year!
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The Parting Guest
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 31, 1912. By Edmund C. Stedman. Where are the good things promised me By the Old Year that’s dying? And what care I how ill he be Who was so given to lying? A comely youth, he sought my door And tarried till his locks were hoar; A fair and foul, capricious guest Who swore to give me of his best; Who pledged himself a true year; But he was then—the New Year. Where are the silver and the gold Ere now should fill my wallet? What mean these scanty clothes and old, This attic room and pallet? The purse he dangled in my view Betwixt his juggling hands slipped through. He found me poor, he left me poorer, But now a richer friend, and surer, Awaits me—in the New Year. Where are the poet’s bays he said My dulcet song should gain me? The wreath that was to crown my head The applause that should sustain me? Alack! Round other brows than mine I see the fresh-won laurels twine! Still, for the music’s sake, I sing; The world may listen yet, and fling Its garlands—in the New Year. Where is the one dear face to love His golden months should bring me, Whose smile a recompense would prove For all the ills that sting me? My heart still beats in loneliness; There is no darling hand to press; But, oh, I dream we yet shall meet, And trust to find her kisses sweet, And win her—in the New Year! Where are the works in patience wrought; The grace to love my neighbor; The sins left off, the wisdom taught Of suffering and labor; The fuller life; the strength to wait; The equal heart for other fate? Well may I speed the parting guest And take this stranger to my breast! Be thou, indeed a true year, O fair and welcome New Year!
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The Years
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 30, 1912. By W. D. Nesbit. Sunrise, and noon, and sunset, And day slips into day; Twilight, and dark, and daylight— A year has rolled away. Budding, and bloom, and fading, Green tree, and leafless bough; Seeding, and growth, and harvest— So dies an old year now. Singing, and sighs, and silence, The frownings and the smiles, Toiling, and stress, and resting, And grave or gayer whiles; Days that have brought their honors, And days that left their scars— Over it all the marvel Of each night with its stars. Dreamings, and hopes, and plannings, Tasks that begin and end; Hours that have brought the silence Alike to foe and friend. Words that were sad or merry, Draughts that were bittersweet; Greetings, and hail, and parting— The old and new year meet. Sunrise, and noon, and sunset, Day will slip into day; Twilight, and dark, and daylight, The year will roll away; Sunshine, and song, and gladness, Fair dreams that come in sleep, Birdsong, and nodding blossoms— These we are fain to keep. Darkness, and light, and shadows, Sorrow and golden cheer, Blend into God’s completeness, Into the finished year, Into a memory-fabric Woven of shade and shine— These are the years unfolding In lives like yours and mine.
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The Daily Dangle
From the Evening Star, December 29, 1912. By Philander Johnson. They sing about the dear old farm, And of the leafy lane, And of the village school whose charm They cannot quite explain. And since they wander through the map While touching strains are sung, I’ll carol of the street car strap, Where I have often hung! How I swayed with courage stout, Like some banner tossed about! I almost learned to take a little nap. With a cultivated twist Of the muscles of my wrist, I have dangled daily from the street car strap! We strive to view the roof o’erhead With an expression sweet. We say “Beg pardon!” as we tread On one another’s feet. How proudly shines the polished place Round which our hands we wrap, As in suspension there we grace The dear old street car strap! How it helped to keep my nerve As we went around the curve And almost fell into somebody’s lap. I enjoy my only chance At a modern ragtime dance As I hang upon that dear old street car strap.
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Hayin’ Time
From The Topeka State Journal, December 28, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. All the treetoads are a yellin’ And the bees are buzzin’ round. The grasshoppers are hoppin’ Here and there upon the ground. All the birds are sweetly singin’ And all nature seems in tune. Makes a feller feel like workin’ Workin’ morning, night, and noon. And a sweet and wholesome odor Is a-risin’ from the earth. And the old sun is a-shinin’, Shinin’ down for all it’s worth. All the country folks are hustlin’ Startin’ at the break of day. Mother, she is busy cannin’, Me and dad are makin’ hay. Tell you what, we got to go some For there ain’t no time to lose, Four o’clock most every mornin’ Finds a feller in his shoes. Then he’s got to feed the horses And the pigs and mind the sheep ’Til he gets ‘em to the pasture While you folks in town all sleep. When it comes along to breakfast, Feller’s got an appetite And the salt pork and the taters And the beans taste out of sight, Then we hustle for the meadow And we hit her up ’til noon. When the dinner bell starts ringin’ And she never rings too soon. Half an hour and then we’re at it Pitching hay our very best And we never stop for nothin’ Till the sun sinks in the west. Then we’ve got to feed the horses Milk the cows and get the sheep And about the hour of nine we’re All in bed and fast asleep. Then we all get up at daylight And we start right in once more, Tell you what, a city feller Never’d think of gettin’ sore On his job, if he’d just travel Out here on some hot day And just stand around and look at Me and dad a-makin’ hay.
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The Day After
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 27, 1912. The stockings all are empty and brand new toys are broke, The Christmas tree’s a bit the worse for wear, Good Santa Claus has vanished for another year, at least, And his pocketbook is making papa swear. The doctors are quite busy making flying calls about, For Willie and poor Mamie have a pain, But had such fun that in despite of subsequent events, They’d like to have it over all again. The turkey stuffed and roasted and the toothsome big mince pie That made one feel serene and satisfied, When ‘round about the laden board the happy family sat, Till none could eat more good things if they tried, Have taken dire revenge, and since last night the folks look pale, And efforts to feel chipper are quite vain, But still the feeling of that dinner was so good a one, We all would eat it every bit again. That is the trouble with good times—you have to pay for them. But then they’re worth enjoying while they last; So it is wiser just to take the present when it comes, And not think what it will feel like when it’s past. Perhaps the wise and prudent will dispense with present joys, And shun bright nights with mornings cold and gray, But then they miss a lot of fun who always look ahead, Let good times go for fear of them next day.