LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Eyes, and nevermore came back,

      God help you, girl! I know what you would do.…

      I see the lake wan in the moon, and from the shadow black,

      There drifts a little, empty birch canoe.

      We’re here beyond the Circle, where there’s never wrong nor right;

      We aren’t spliced according to the law;

      But by the gods I hail you on this hushed and holy night

      As the mother of my children, and my squaw.

      I see your little slender face set in the firelight glow;

      I pray that I may never make it sad;

      I hear you croon a baby song, all slumber-soft and low —

      God bless you, little Laughing Eyes! I’m glad.

      The Man Who Knew

      The Dreamer visioned Life as it may be,

      And from his dream forthright a picture grew,

      A painting all the people thronged to see,

      And joyed therein — till came the Man Who Knew,

      Saying: “’Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!

      He painteth not according to the schools.”

      The Dreamer probed Life’s mystery of woe,

      And in a book he sought to give the clue;

      The people read, and saw that it was so,

      And read again — then came the Man Who Knew,

      Saying: “Ye witless ones! this book is vile:

      It hath not got the rudiments of style.”

      Love smote the Dreamer’s lips, and silver clear

      He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,

      That all the marketplace was thrilled to hear,

      And listened rapt — till came the Man Who Knew,

      Saying: “His technique’s wrong; he singeth ill.

      Waste not your time.” The singer’s voice was still.

      And then the people roused as if from sleep,

      Crying: “What care we if it be not Art!

      Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?

      Come, let us crown him where he sits apart.”

      Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread,

      His song unsung, they found their Dreamer — dead.

From Rhymes of a Red Cross Man

      The Volunteer

      Sez I: My Country calls? Well let it call.

      I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks.

      Go, let ’em plaster every blighted wall,

      ’Ere’s one they don’t stampede into the ranks.

      Them politicians with their greasy ways;

      Them empire-grabbers — fight for ’em? No fear!

      I’ve seen this mess a-comin’ from the days

      Of Algyserious and Aggydear:

      I’ve felt me passion rise and swell

      But … wot the ’ell, Bill? Wot the ’ell?

      Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek.

      Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive,

      Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week,

      And sweats red blood to keep meself alive!

      Fight for the right to slave that they may spend,

      Them in their mansions, me ’ere in my slum?

      No, let ’em fight wot’s something to defend:

      But me, I’ve nothin’ — let the Kaiser come.

      And so I cusses ’ard and well,

      But … wot the ’ell, Bill? Wot the ’ell?

      Sez I: If they would do the decent thing,

      And shield the missis and the little ’uns,

      Why, even I might shout “God save the King,”

      And face the chances of them ’ungry guns.

      But we’ve got three, another on the way;

      It’s that wot makes me snarl and set me jor:

      The wife and nippers, wot of ’em, I say,

      If I gets knocked out in this blasted war?

      Gets proper busted by a shell,

      But … wot the ’ell, Bill? Wot the ’ell?

      Ay, wot the ’ell’s the use of all this talk?

      Today some boys in blue was passin’ me,

      And some of ’em they ’ad no legs to walk,

      And some of ’em they ’ad no eyes to see.

      And — well, I couldn’t look ’em in the face,

      And so I’m goin’, goin’ to declare

      I’m under forty-one and take me place

      To face the music with the bunch out there.

      A fool, you say! Maybe you’re right.

      I’ll ’ave no peace unless I fight.

      I’ve ceased to think; I only know

      I’ve gotta go, Bill, gotta go.

      The Man from Athabaska

      Oh the wife she tried to tell me that ’twas nothing but the thrumming

      Of a woodpecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;

      And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming

      Of the mustering of legions, and ’twas calling unto me;

      ’Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

      And a-mending of my fish nets sure I started up in wonder,

      For I heard a savage roaring and ’twas coming from afar;

      Oh the wife she tried to tell me that ’twas only summer thunder,

      And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;

      ’Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

      Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,

      And the word he said was “War” again, so what was I to do?

      Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying,

      As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe:

      Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.

      Says the factor: “Mike, you’re crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.

      You’re as grizzled as a badger, and you’re sixty year or so.”

      “But I haven’t missed a scrap,” says I, “since I was one and twenty.

      And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers — no!”

      So I sold my furs and started … and that’s eighteen months ago.

      For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter

      In the trenches of the

Скачать книгу