Read Ebook: Songs for a Little House by Morley Christopher

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Ebook has 264 lines and 19279 words, and 6 pages

O praise me not the country-- The meadows green and cool, The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool! The city for my craving, Her lordship and her slaving, The hot stones of her paving For me, a city fool!

O praise me not the leisure Of gardened country seats, The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats-- The city for my yearning, My spending and my earning. Her winding ways for learning, Sing hey! the city streets!

O praise me not the country, Her sycamores and bees, I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees! The city for my wooing, My dreaming and my doing; Her beauty for pursuing, Her deathless mysteries.

O praise me not the country, Her evenings full of stars, Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars-- The city for my wonder, Her glory and her blunder, And O the haunting thunder Of the Elevated cars!

ANIMAL CRACKERS

Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink, That is the finest of suppers, I think; When I'm grown up and can have what I please I think I shall always insist upon these.

The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know: The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow, And there in the twilight, how jolly to see The cocoa and animals waiting for me.

Daddy and Mother dine later in state, With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait; But they don't have nearly as much fun as I Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by; And Daddy once said, he would like to be me Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!

THE WAKEFUL HUSBAND

How blue the moonlight and how still the night. Silent I ramble through the whole dear house Setting aright in happy ownership Whatever may lie out of its due place. Books in the living room I rearrange, Then in the dining room my pewter mugs, And put her little brown nasturtium bowl Where she can see it when she telephones. Up in my den the papers are a-sprawl And litter up my desk: these too I sort Thinking, to-morrow I will rise betimes And do my work neglected.... Tiptoe then I pass into the Shrine. She is asleep, Dark hair across the moon-blanched pillow slip. Her eyes are sealed with peace, but as I touch The girlish cheek, her lips are tremulous With secret knowing smiles. In her boudoir I wind up the tiny clock And stand at her Prayer Window where the fields Lie listening to the crickets and the stars.... Alas, I only hear the throb of pain That echoes from the moonlit fields of France.

Into our kitchen, too, I love to go, Straighten the spoons against our break of fast, Share secrets with our dog, the drowsy-eyed, Surprise the kitten with some midnight milk. The pantry cupboard, full of pleasant things, Attracts me: there I love to place in line The packages of cereals, or fill up The breakfast sugar bowl; and empty out The icebox pan into the singing night.

LIGHT VERSE

At night the gas lamps light our street, Electric bulbs our homes; The gas is billed in cubic feet, Electric light in ohms.

But one illumination still Is brighter far, and sweeter; It is not figured in a bill, Nor measured by a meter.

More bright than lights that money buys, More pleasing to discerners, The shining lamps of Helen's eyes, Those lovely double burners!

FULL MOON

The moon is but a silver watch To tell the time of night; If you should wake, and wish to know The hour, don't strike a light.

Just draw the blind, and closely scan Her dial in the blue: If it is round and bright, there is A deal more sleep for you.

She runs without an error, Not too slow nor too quick, And better than alarum clocks-- She doesn't have to tick!

MY WIFE

Pure as the moonlight, sweet as midnight air, Simple as the primrose, brave and just and fair, Such is my wife. The more unworthy I To kiss the little hand of her by whom I lie.

New words, true words, need I to make you see The gallantry, the graciousness, that she has brought to me; How humble and how haughty, how quick in thought and deed, How loyally she comrades me in every time of need.

To-night she is not with me. I kiss her empty dress. Here I kneel beside it, not ashamed to bless Each dear bosom-fold of it that bears a breath of her, Makes my heart a house of pain, and my eyes a blur.

Here I kneel beside it, humble now to pray That God will send her back to me on the morrow day.

New words, true words, only such could praise The blessed, blessed magic of her dear and dauntless ways.

WASHING THE DISHES

When we on simple rations sup How easy is the washing up! But heavy feeding complicates The task by soiling many plates.

And though I grant that I have prayed That we might find a serving-maid, I'd scullion all my days, I think, To see Her smile across the sink!

I wash, She wipes. In water hot I souse each dish and pan and pot; While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs, And rubs himself against my legs.

The man who never in his life Has washed the dishes with his wife Or polished up the silver plate-- He still is largely celibate.

One warning: there is certain ware That must be handled with all care: The Lord Himself will give you up If you should drop a willow cup!

THE FURNACE

At night I opened The furnace door: The warm glow brightened The cellar floor.

The fire that sparkled Blue and red, Kept small toes cosy In their bed.

THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES

As I went by the church to-day I heard the organ cry; And goodly folk were on their knees, But I went striding by.

My minster hath a roof more vast: My aisles are oak trees high; My altar-cloth is on the hills, My organ is the sky.

I see my rood upon the clouds, The winds, my chanted choir; My crystal windows, heaven-glazed, Are stained with sunset fire.

The stars, the thunder, and the rain, White sands and purple seas-- These are His pulpit and His pew, My God of Unbent Knees!

THE NEW ALTMAN BUILDING

Madison Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street

Fled is the glamour, fled the royal dream, Fled is the joy. They work no more by night Deep in that cave of dazzling amber light, In pools of darkness, under plumes of steam. Gone are the laughing drills that sting and hiss Deep in the ribs of the metropolis.

Gone are the torches and the great red cranes That swung their arms with such resistless might; Gone are the flags and drums of that great fight, No more they swink with rocks and autumn rains; And only girders, rising tier on tier, Give hint of all the struggle that was here.

We too, mad zealots of the hardest craft, Striving to build a word-house fair and tall, Have wept to see our dear erections fall; Have wept--then flung away our tools, and laughed. Fled is the dream, but working year by year We see our buildings rising, tier on tier.

THE MADONNA OF THE CURB

She cannot be more than seven; But years go fast in the slums, And hard on the pains of winter The pitiless summer comes. The wail of sickly children She knows; she understands The pangs of puny bodies, The clutch of small hot hands.

Her ragged dress is dearer Than the perfect robe of a queen! Poor little lass, who knows not The blessing of being clean. And when you are giving millions To Belgian, Pole and Serb, Remember my pitiful lady-- Madonna of the Curb!

MY PIPE

My pipe is old And caked with soot; My wife remarks: "How can you put That horrid relic, So unclean, Inside your mouth? The nicotine Is strong enough To stupefy A Swedish plumber." I reply:

"This is the kind Of pipe I like: I fill it full Of Happy Strike, Or Barking Cat Or Cabman's Puff, Or Brooklyn Bridge Or Chaste Embraces, Knacker's Twist, Old Honeycomb Or Niggerfist.

I clamp my teeth Upon its stem-- It is my bliss, My diadem. Whatever Fate May do to me, This is my favourite B B B. For this dear pipe You feign to scorn I smoked the night The boy was born."

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