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A SENSE OF HUMOR Spoken by the Author in his own person NO man should stand before the moon, | |
To make sweet song thereon, | |
With dandified importance, | |
His sense of humor gone. | |
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Nay, let him don the motley cap, | 5 |
The jesters chastened mien, | |
If he would woo that looking-glass | |
And see what should be seen. | |
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O mirror on fair Heavens wall! | |
We find there what we bring; | 10 |
So let us smile in honest part, | |
And deck our souls, and sing. | |
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Yea, by the chastened jest alone | |
Will ghosts and terrors pass; | |
And fays, and merry friendly things | 15 |
Throw kisses through the glass. | |
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THE SOUL OF THE GAMBLER Where now the huts are empty, | |
Where never a camp-fire glows, | |
In an abandoned cañon | |
A gamblers ghost arose. | 20 |
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He muttered there, The moons a sack | |
Of dust. His voice rose thin: | |
I wish I knew the miner man; | |
Id play, and play to win. | |
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In every game in Cripple Creek | 25 |
Of old, when stakes were high, | |
I held my own. Now I would play | |
For that sack in the sky. | |
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The sport would not be ended there. | |
Twould rather be begun. | 30 |
Id bet my moon against His stars, | |
And gamble for the Sun. | |
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WHAT THE MINER IN THE DESERT SAID The moons a brazen water-keg, | |
A wondrous water-feast. | |
If I could climb the sands and drink | 35 |
And give drink to my beast, | |
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If I could drain that keg, the flies | |
Would not be biting so, | |
My burning feet be spry again, | |
My mule no longer slow, | 40 |
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And I could rise and dig for ore | |
And reach my fatherland, | |
And not be food for ants and hawks, | |
And perish in the sand. | |
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WHAT THE MOON SAW Two statesmen met by moonlight; | 45 |
Their ease was partly feigned. | |
They glanced about the prairie, | |
Their faces were constrained. | |
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In various ways aforetime | |
They had misled the state, | 50 |
Yet did it so politely | |
Their henchmen thought them great. | |
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They sat beneath a hedge and spake | |
No word, but had a smoke. | |
A satchel passed from hand to hand
| 55 |
Next day the deadlock broke. | |
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THE MOON IS COMPARED TO A CITY What the Tired Reformer Said The moons a perfect city, with | |
Curved walls encompassed round; | |
With yellow palaces upreared | |
Upon a glittering ground. | 60 |
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Sometimes a disk, a planet dead; | |
But on this splendid night, | |
When all the sky is shining clear, | |
When my whole heart is light, | |
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I think it is a place for friends. | 65 |
My soul is there in mirth, | |
With golden-robed good-citizens, | |
Far from the dusty earth. | |
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Hail to the perfect city then! | |
I love your doors and domes, | 70 |
Your turrets and your palaces, | |
Your terraces, your homes. | |
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THE MOON IS A KNIGHT IN ARMOR What the Soldier Said Oh, see the knight in armor, | |
Who keeps his visor down | |
And charges with a moon-beam spear | 75 |
On hard hearts of the town; | |
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Who makes the shabby fountain-square | |
A flowering, glimmering park, | |
Who pierces with a sharp-sweet dream | |
The crabbed minds and dark; | 80 |
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Who conquers those who see him not, | |
Their brooding heads bent down; | |
The knight whose scarcely-heeded strokes | |
Have cleansed and cleared the town! | |
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EUCLID Old Euclid drew a circle | 85 |
On a sand-beach, long ago. | |
He bounded and enclosed it | |
With angles thus and so. | |
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His set of solemn greybeards | |
Nodded and argued much | 90 |
Of arc and of circumference, | |
Diameter and such. | |
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A silent child stood by them | |
From morning until noon, | |
Because they drew such charming | 95 |
Round pictures of the moon. | |
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DRYING THEIR WINGS What the Carpenter Said to the Child The moons a cottage with a door | |
Some folk can see it plain. | |
Look! You may catch a glint of light | |
A-sparkle through the pane, | 100 |
Showing the place is brighter still | |
Within, though bright without. | |
There at a cosy open fire | |
Strange babes are grouped about: | |
The children of the Wind and Tide, | 105 |
The urchins of the sky, | |
Drying their wings from storms and things | |
So they again can fly. | |
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YET GENTLE WILL THE GRIFFIN BE What Grandpa Told the Children The Moon? It is a griffins egg, | |
Hatching tomorrow night; | 110 |
And how the little boys will watch | |
With shouting and delight | |
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To see him break the shell and stretch | |
And creep across the sky. | |
The boys will laugh, the little girls, | 115 |
I fear, may hide and cry. | |
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Yet gentle will the griffin be, | |
Most decorous and fat; | |
And walk up to the milky way | |
And lap it like a cat. | 120 |
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WHAT THE RATTLESNAKE SAID The Moons a little prairie-dog. | |
He shivers through the night. | |
He sits upon his hill and cries | |
For fear that I will bite. | |
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The Suns a broncho. Hes afraid | 125 |
Like every other thing, | |
And trembles morning, noon and night | |
Lest I should spring and sting. | |
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THE RECREANT QUEENS To be tied to a pebble and thrown through a palace window The Moons a mirror where dim shades | |
Of queens are doomed to peer, | 130 |
The beauteous queens that loved not love | |
Or faith or godly fear. | |
The night-wind makes their mirror grey. | |
The breath of Autumn drear, | |
And many mists of time and change | 135 |
Have clouded it apace, | |
In mercy veiled it lest each queen | |
Too clearly see her face, | |
With long-past sins deep written there, | |
And ghostly rags she now must wear, | 140 |
While slain men oer her shoulders glare, | |
Leering at her disgrace. | |
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THE SCISSORS-GRINDER What the Tramp Said The old man had his box and wheel | |
For grinding knives and shears. | |
No doubt his bell in village streets | 145 |
Was joy to childrens ears. | |
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And I bethought me of my youth | |
When such men came around, | |
And times I asked them in, quite sure | |
The scissors should be ground. | 150 |
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The old man turned and spoke to me, | |
His face at last in view. | |
And then I thought those curious eyes | |
Were eyes that once I knew. | |
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The moon is but an emery-wheel | 155 |
To whet the sword of God, | |
He said, and here beside my fire | |
I stretch upon the sod | |
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Each night, and dream, and watch the stars | |
And watch the ghost-clouds go, | 160 |
And see the sword of God in Heaven | |
A-waving to and fro. | |
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I see that sword each century, friend. | |
It means the world-war comes, | |
With all its bloody wicked chiefs | 165 |
And hate-inflaming drums. | |
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Men talk of Peace, but I have seen | |
That emery-wheel turn round. | |
The voice of Abel cries again | |
To God from out the ground. | 170 |
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The ditches must flow red, the Plague | |
Go stark and screaming by, | |
Each time the sword of God takes edge | |
Within the midnight sky. | |
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And those that scorned their brothers here | 175 |
And sowed a wind of shame | |
Will reap the whirlwind as of old, | |
And face relentless flame. | |
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And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, | |
His face at last in view. | 180 |
And there beside the railroad-bridge | |
I saw the Wandering Jew. | |
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WHAT THE YOUNG RHYMER SAID No poet spent with visions, | |
Bit by the Citys teeth, | |
Laughing at fortune, seeking | 185 |
Fame and the singers wreath, | |
But must grow brave this evening, | |
Humming a wilder tune, | |
Armed against men and nations. | |
Why? He beholds the moon! | 190 |
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