PHANTASMAGORIA
AND OTHER POEMS

BY
LEWIS CARROLL

WITH IMAGES
BY
ARTHUR B. FROST

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1911

p. ivRichard Clay & Sons, Limited
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

First published in 1869.

p. vDedicated to a beloved child:
in remembrance of wonderful summer days
and the gentle sounds of a summer sea.

Dressed in a boy's outfit for a boy's job,
She eagerly uses her spade, but also enjoys
Resting on a friendly knee, wanting to ask
For the story one loves to share.

Rude mocker of the boiling outside conflict,
   Unfit to understand her pure and simple spirit,
Think what you want, these hours are a waste of life,
         Lacking all joy!

Chat on, sweet girl, and free from frustration
   Hearts that by smarter conversations aren’t deceived.
Ah, lucky is the one who possesses the sweetest joy,
         The love of a child!

Away, sweet memories, and trouble my soul no more!
Work demands my sleepless nights, my hectic days,
Even though bright memories of the sunny shore
Still linger in my dreaming eyes.

One winter night, at 9:30,
      Cold, tired, grumpy, and muddy,
I got home, too late for dinner,
And supper, along with cigars and wine,
      Was waiting in the study.

There was something weird in the room,
      And something white and wavy
Was standing close to me in the dark—
I thought it was the carpet broom
      Left by that careless maid.

p. 2But soon the Thing started
To shiver and sneeze:
So I said, “Come on, my friend!
That’s a really thoughtless plan.
Keep it down, if you please!”

p. 3“I’ve caught a cold,” the Thing replies,
      “Out there on the landing.”
I turned to look, surprised,
And there, right before my eyes,
      A little Ghost was standing!

He shook when he met my gaze,
      And hid behind a chair.
“How did you get here,” I asked, “and why?
I’ve never seen anything so timid.
      Come out! Don’t shake there!”

He said, “I’d be happy to explain how,
      And also why;
But” (he gave a slight bow)
“You’re in such a bad mood right now,
      You’d probably think it’s all a lie.

“And when it comes to being scared,
Let me just say
That ghosts have just as much right
In every way, to fear the light,
As people do to fear the dark.”

p. 4“No excuse,” I said, “can justify
Such cowardice from you:
Ghosts can show up whenever they want,
But we Humans can’t turn down
The chance to meet.”

He said, “A bit of alarm
      Isn’t unnatural, right?
I honestly thought you meant some harm:
But now I see that you’re calm,
      Let me explain why I’m here.

“Houses are categorized, I must say,
      Based on how many
Ghosts they can hold:
(The Tenant just counts as weight,
      Along with coal and other stuff).

“This is a ‘one-ghost’ house, and you
When you arrived last summer,
may have noticed a spirit who
was doing everything ghosts do
to welcome the newcomer.

p. 5“In villas, this happens all the time—
      No matter how cheap the rent:
Because even though it's less enjoyable
When there’s only space for one,
      Ghosts still have to make do.

“That Spectre left you on the Third—
      Since then you’ve not been haunted:
For, as he never sent us word,
It was just by chance we heard
      That anyone was wanted.

“A Spectre has first choice, by right,
      In filling up a vacancy;
Then Phantom, Goblin, Elf, and Sprite—
If all these fail them, they invite
      The nicest Ghoul that they can see.

“The Spectres said the place was cheap,
      And that you had terrible wine:
So, since a Ghost had to leave,
And I was first, obviously, you know,
      I couldn’t really say no.”

p. 6“For sure,” I said, “they decided who
      Was best suited to be sent.
But still, picking a kid like you
To bother a guy who's forty-two
      Isn't exactly a nice gesture!”

“I’m not as young as you might think, Sir,” he replied,
      “The truth is,
In caves by the water’s edge,
And other spots I’ve explored,
      I’ve had a lot of practice:

“But I have never really taken
      A strict domestic role,
And in my rush I forget
The Five Good Rules of Etiquette
      We must memorize.”

My feelings were quickly warming
Towards the little guy:
He was completely shocked
At finally finding a Man,
And looked so frightened and pale.

p. 8“At least,” I said, “I’m glad to find
      A ghost isn’t a dumb thing!
But please have a seat: you’ll probably want
(If, like me, you haven’t eaten)
      To grab a bite of something:

“Though, for sure, you don’t
      Look like you have anything to offer!
And then I’d be happy to hear—
If you’ll say them loud and clear—
      The Rules that you’re referring to.”

“Thanks! You’ll hear them soon enough.
This is a stroke of luck!”
“What can I get you?” I asked.
“Well, since you are so nice, I’ll have
A little bit of duck.

“One slice! And can I ask you for
Another drop of gravy?”
I sat and stared at him in amazement,
Because I had never seen
Anything so white and wavy.

p. 9And still he appeared to become whiter,
More misty and more unsteady—
Seen in the faint and flickering light,
As he continued to recite
His “Maxims of Behavior.”

“My First—but don’t think,” he said,
      “I’m giving you a riddle—
Is—if your Victim is in bed,
Don’t mess with the curtains at his head,
      But grab them in the middle,

“And wave them slowly in and out,
      While pulling them apart;
And in a minute’s time, for sure,
He’ll lift his head and look around
      With eyes full of anger and curiosity.

“And here you absolutely mustn't
      Make the first remark.
Wait for the Victim to start:
No ghost of common sense
      Kicks off a conversation."

p. 11 “If he asks ‘How did you get here?’
      (The way that you started, Sir,)
In that situation, your response is simple—
‘On the bat’s back, my little dear!’
      That’s the right answer.

p. 12“If he doesn't say anything else after this,
      You might want to cut back on your
Efforts—go ahead and rattle the door,
And then, if he starts snoring,
      You’ll know it didn’t work out.

“By day, if he’s alone—
      At home or out for a walk—
You just give a hollow groan,
To show the kind of tone
      You intend to use when you talk.

“But if you find him with his friends,
      It's a bit trickier.
In that situation, success relies
On grabbing some leftover candles,
      Or butter, from the pantry."

“With this you create a sort of slide
      (It works best with suet),
On which you have to figure out how to glide,
And swing yourself from side to side—
      You quickly learn how to do it."

p. 14“The Second tells us what's right
      In formal calls:
‘First light a blue or red flame’
(Something I totally forgot tonight),
      ‘Then scratch the door or walls.’”

I said, “You won’t visit here anymore,
      If you try the Guy.
I won’t have any bonfires on my floor—
And as for scratching at the door,
      I’d love to see you try!”

“The Third was written to protect
      The interests of the Victim,
And tells us, as I remember,
To treat him with serious respect,
      And not to argue with him.”

“That’s obvious,” I said, “as Tare and Tret,
      To anyone who gets it:
I just wish some Ghosts I’ve met
Wouldn’t so constantly forget
      The principle you bring up!”

p. 15“Maybe,” he said, “you first
      Broke
The rules of hospitality:
All ghosts naturally hate
The person who doesn't treat their guest
      With the right warmth.”

p. 16“If you call a ghost ‘Thing!’
      Or hit him with an axe,
He's allowed by the King
To stop all formal talking—
      And then you’re definitely in trouble!

“The Fourth prohibits trespassing
      Where other Ghosts are quartered:
And those convicted of the thing
(Unless when pardoned by the King)
      Must instantly be slaughtered.

“Basically, it means ‘be chopped up small’:
      Ghosts quickly come together again.
The process hardly hurts at all—
Not more than when you get what you call
      ‘Chopped up’ by a Review.

“The Fifth is one you might like
      That I should quote completely:—
The King must be addressed as ‘Sir.’
This, from a simple courtier,
      Is all the Laws require:

p. 17“But, if you want to do this
      With complete politeness,
Address him as ‘My Goblin King!
And always say, when responding,
      The phrase ‘Your Royal Whiteness!’

“I’m getting pretty hoarse, I fear,
      After so much reciting:
So, if you don’t mind, my dear,
We’ll try a glass of bitter beer—
      I think it looks inviting.”

“And did you really walk,” I asked,
      “On such a miserable night?
I always thought ghosts could fly—
If not exactly in the sky,
      Then at a pretty good height.”

“It’s all good,” he said, “for kings
      To rise above the ground:
But phantoms often discover that wings—
Like many other enjoyable things—
      Cost more than they’re worth.

“Ghosts, of course, are wealthy, and so
      They can buy them from the Elves:
But we prefer to stay out of sight—
They’re really dull company, you know,
      For anyone but themselves:

p. 19“Because, even though they say they’re above pride,
They look down on a phantom
As something totally worthless—
Just like no turkey ever thought
About paying attention to a bantam.”

p. 20“They seem too proud,” I said, “to go
      to places like mine.
How on earth did they manage to know
So quickly that ‘the place was low,’
      And that I ‘served bad wine’?”

“Inspector Kobold came to you—”
The little Ghost started.
I interrupted—“Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts? That's something new!
Explain yourself, my friend!”

“His name is Kobold,” said my guest:
      “He’s part of the Spectre order:
You’ll often see him wearing
A yellow gown, a red vest,
      And a nightcap with a trim.

"He tried the Brocken thing first,
      But ended up getting a bit of a chill;
So he came to England to get some care,
And here it turned into thirst,
      Which he still complains about."

p. 22“He says port wine, when it's rich and good,
warms his old bones like nectar:
And since the inns where it's found,
are his favorite hunting grounds,
we call him the Inn-Spectre.”

I put up with it—I handled it like a man—
      This painful joke!
And nothing could have been better than
My mood, until the Ghost started
      Some really annoying criticism.

“Cooks shouldn't be allowed to waste food;
      But still, you should teach them
Dishes need to have some kind of flavor.
Seriously, why are all the condiment containers placed
      Where nobody can reach them?

“That guy of yours will never make a living as a waiter!
Is that weird thing supposed to burn?
(It’s way too gloomy a situation
      To get a Moderator involved).

p. 23“The duck was tender, but the peas
      Were way too old:
And just remember, if you want,
The next time you have grilled cheese,
      Don’t let them serve it cold.

“You’d find the bread’s taste better, I think,
      If you used better flour:
And do you have anything to drink
That looks a little less like ink,
      And isn’t quite so sour?”

Then, looking around with curious eyes,
      He muttered, “Wow!”
And continued to criticize—
“Your room’s an awkward size:
      It’s neither cozy nor big.

“That narrow window, I guess,
      Only lets the dusk in—”
“But please,” I said, “remember
It was designed by an architect
      Who believed in Ruskin!”

p. 24“I don’t care who he was, Sir, or
On whom he placed his trust!
Built by whatever rule,
It was the worst work I’ve ever seen,
As I’m a living ghost!”

“What a remarkable cigar!
      How much are they for a dozen?”
I growled, “No matter what they cost!
You’re getting way too familiar
      As if you were my cousin!”

“Now that’s something I won't tolerate,
      And so I’m being straightforward with you.”
“Aha,” he replied, “we’re getting serious!”
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
      “I’ll take care of that!”

And here he aimed carefully,
      And happily shouted, “Here it goes!”
I tried to dodge it as it flew,
But somehow I caught it, just the same,
      Right on my nose.

p. 25And I don't remember anything else
      That I can clearly recall,
Until I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating “Two plus five makes four,
      But five plus two equals six.”

What really happened, I never found out,
      Nor guessed: I only know
That, when I finally regained my senses,
The lamp, ignored, barely glowed—
      The fire was dying down—

Through driving mists, I seemed to see
      A figure that smirked and smiled:
And realized he was teaching me
A lesson in Biography,
      As if I were a child.

“Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
We had such a great time!
Each one sitting on their favorite post,
We bit and chewed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea.”

p. 27“That story has been published!” I shouted.
“Don’t say it hasn’t, because
It’s as well-known as Bradshaw’s Guide!”
(The Ghost replied hesitantly
He didn’t really believe that).

“It’s not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
I almost think it is—
‘Three little Ghosts’ were set
‘On posts,’ you know, and ate
Their ‘buttered toasts.’

“I have the book, so if you doubt it—”
      I turned to search the shelf.
“Don’t move!” he shouted.  “We’ll manage without it:
I now remember everything;
      I wrote it myself.

“It came out in a ‘Monthly,’ or
At least my agent said it did:
Some literary big shot, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
The Magazine he edited.

p. 28“My dad was a Brownie, Sir;
      My mom was a Fairy.
She thought that maybe,
The kids would be happier,
      If they learned to be different.

“The idea quickly turned into a trend;
      And, once it started, she
Brought out different sides of us—
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
      Another was a Banshee;

“The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
And caused a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (who broke the rule),
A Goblin, and a Double—

“(If that’s a snuff-box on the shelf,”
      He added with a yawn,
“I’ll take a pinch)—next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that’s me),
      And last, a Leprechaun.

p. 29 “One day, some Ghosts happened to visit,
Dressed in their typical white:
I stood and watched them in the hall,
And couldn’t figure them out at all,
They looked so odd a sight.

“I wondered what they were,
      That looked all head and sack;
But Mom told me not to stare,
And then she tugged my hair,
      And punched me in the back.

“Since then, I've often wished that I
      Had been born a Spectre.
p. 30But what’s the point?” (He let out a sigh.)
“They are the nobility of ghosts,
      And look down on us with contempt.

“My ghostly life started quickly:
      When I was barely six,
I went out with someone older—
At first, I thought it was fun,
      And picked up a lot of tricks.

“I’ve roamed dungeons, castles, towers—
      Wherever I was sent:
I’ve often sat and cried for hours,
Soaked to the skin with pouring rain,
      On a battlement.

“It’s pretty outdated now to
      Groan when you start to talk:
This is the latest trend in tone—”
And here (it sent chills down my spine)
      He made an awful squeak.

“Maybe,” he added, “to your ear
      That sounds easy, right?
p. 31Go ahead, give it a try, my dear!
It took me about a year,
      With lots of practice.

“And when you’ve learned to squeak, my dude,
      And caught the double sob,
You’re pretty much right where you started:
Just try and babble if you can!
      That’s something like a job!

“I’ve tried it, and all I can say is
      I’m sure you couldn’t do it, even if you practiced day and night,
Unless you have a knack for it,
      And some natural talent.”

“Shakespeare, I believe, is the one who writes
      About ghosts from ancient times,
Who ‘gibbered in the Roman streets,’
Dressed, if you remember, in sheets—
      They must have felt pretty chilly.

“I’ve often spent ten pounds on stuff,
      To dress up like a Double;
p. 32But, even though it serves as a promotion,
It never really makes a big enough impact
      To justify the hassle."

“Long bills soon satisfied the little thirst
      I had for being funny.
The setup is always the hardest:
So many things you want at first,
      You must be made of money!

p. 33“For example, consider a Haunted Tower,
      With skulls, crossbones, and
a sheet;
Blue lights that burn (let's say) two per hour,
A powerful condensing lens,
      And a complete set of chains:

“What with the things you have to hire—
      The fitting on the robe—
And testing all the colored fire—
The outfit alone would try
      The patience of a saint!

“And then they’re so picky,
      The Haunted-House Committee:
I’ve often seen them get upset
Because a Ghost was French, or Russian,
      Or even from the City!”

“Some dialects are criticized—
      For example, the Irish accent
And then, for all you have to do,
They offer you one pound a week,
      Only to end up in Bogies!”

“Don't they talk to the ‘Victims,’ though?”
      I said. “They really should,
Give them a chance—because, you know,
People have such different tastes,
      Especially in Sprites.”

The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
“Consult them? Not at all!
It would just drive one crazy,
To satisfy a single child—
There’d be no end to it!”

“Of course you can’t let children be completely free,”
      I said, “to pick and choose:
But, in the case of people like me,
I think ‘Mine Host’ should definitely be
      Allowed to share his thoughts.”

p. 35He said, “It really wouldn’t be worth it—
      People are so caught up in their ideas.
We visit for just one day,
And whether we leave or stick around,
      Depends on the situation.

“And, even though we don’t ask ‘Mine Host’
      Before things are set up,
Still, if he often leaves his place,
Or isn’t a polite Ghost,
      Then you can get him changed.”

“But if the host is a guy like you—
      I mean a sensible guy;
And if the house isn’t too modern—”
“Why, what does that,” I said, “have to do
      With the Ghost’s convenience?”

“A new house doesn’t work, you know—
      It’s such a hassle to decorate:
But after about twenty years,
The wood paneling starts to wear,
      So twenty is the max.”

“To trim” was not a phrase I could
Remember having heard:
p. 36“Maybe,” I said, “you’ll be kind
As to tell me what that word means?”

“It means opening all the doors,”
      The Ghost replied, and laughed:
“It means drilling holes by the dozens
In all the baseboards and floors,
      To create a good airflow.

p. 37“Sometimes, you'll see that just one or two
      Are all you really need
To let the wind blow through—
But here there’s plenty to do!”
      I barely breathed out, “Absolutely!

“If I’d shown up a bit later, I bet,” I added, trying (and failing) to smile, “You'd have been busy this whole time, fixing up and making everything look nice?”

“Why, no,” he said; “maybe I should
      Have stayed another minute—
But still no Ghost that’s worth anything
Without an introduction would
      Have dared to start it.

“The right thing to do since you were late,
      Was definitely to go:
But, with the roads being in rough shape,
I got the Knight-Mayor’s permission to wait
      For about half an hour or so.”

p. 38“Who’s the Knight-Mayor?” I shouted. Instead
      of answering my question,
“Well, if you don’t know that,” he replied,
“Either you never sleep,
      or you have an amazing digestion!”

“He goes around and sits with people
      Who eat too much at night:
His job is to pinch, and poke,
And squeeze them until they nearly choke.”
      (I said “They deserve it!”)

“And people who eat stuff like this—”
      He mumbled, “eggs and bacon—
Lobster—and duck—and toasted cheese—
If they don’t end up in a tough spot,
      I’m really wrong!

“He is extremely heavy, and so
      He fits the job perfectly:
Actually, if you really want to know,
We used to call him years ago,
      The Mayor and Corporation!

p. 40“The day he was elected Mayor
I know that every Sprite meant
To vote for me, but didn't have the guts—
He was so overwhelmed with despair
And mad with excitement.

“When it was over, just on a whim,
      He rushed to tell the King;
And since he was quite hefty,
p. 41A two-mile jog was not an easy thing for him.

“Maybe to reward him for his effort
      (Since it was sweltering,
And he weighed over twenty stone),
The King went ahead, partly joking,
      To knight him right then and there.”

“It was quite a bold move!”
      (I exploded with excitement).
“He did it just for the sake of a pun:
‘The man,’ says Johnson, ‘who would make
      A pun, would pick a pocket!’”

“A man,” he said, “is not a King.”
I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove my point—
The Phantom merely listened
With a mocking smile.

At last, when I was out of breath and patience,
      I turned to smoking—
“Your aim,” he said, “is spot on:
p. 42But—when you call it argument—
      You’re just joking, right?”

Stung by his cold and slithery gaze,
I finally gathered the energy
To say, “At least I dare
The greatest skeptic to deny
That together we are strong!”

p. 43“That’s definitely true,” he said, “but wait—”
I listened patiently—
“Unity is strength, I have to admit;
It’s really as obvious as it gets;
But onions are my weakness.”

As someone who seeks a hill to climb,
      Who's never climbed before:
Who realizes, in a short time,
It becomes less impressive every moment,
      And considers it a drag:

Yet, having once started to try,
      He doesn’t dare abandon his quest,
But, climbing, always keeps his eye
On one small cabin against the sky
      Where he hopes to find some rest:

Who climbs until their strength is gone,
      With many a gasping breath:
Who still, as the height increases,
In speech becomes more intense,
      Even though their breath is shorter:

Who, climbing, eventually reaches the spot
      That tops the steep path.
p. 45And, stumbling in with shaky steps,
Gets hit in the face
      That knocks him onto his back:

And feels like someone dreaming,
  Gliding fast back down again,
A heavy load, from hill to hill,
Until, with a dizzy rush,
  He falls onto the flat ground—

So I, who had decided to bring
Evidence to a ghost,
And found it to be completely different
From any human debate,
Yet didn’t dare leave my position

p. 46But, keeping the end goal in sight
      That I aimed to reach,
I worked to verify the truth
By putting everything I understood
      Into a statement:

Starting every single sentence
      With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’
I stumbled around, a hundred ways,
Through the logical maze,
      Unaware of where I was.

Quoth he, “That’s just nonsense:
      Stop bragging already.
Now do relax and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old man
      Was never seen before!

“You’re like a guy I used to know,
      Who got so mad one day
During an argument, the sheer intensity
Burned both his slippers right off his feet!”
      I said “That’s really strange!”

p. 48“Well, it’s definitely strange, I agree,
And it might sound like lies:
But still, it’s as true as it gets—
As sure as your name is Tibbs,” he said.
I responded, “My name’s not Tibbs.”

“Not Tibbs!” he shouted—his tone got
      a bit less cheerful—
“Actually, no,” I replied. “My full name
Is Tibbets—” “Tibbets?”  “Yeah, that’s right.”
      “Well then YOU'RE NOT THAT PERSON!”

With that, he hit the table hard
      And broke half the glasses.
“Why didn’t you tell me that
Three quarters of an hour ago,
      You idiot?”

“To walk four miles through mud and rain,
      To spend the night in smoke,
And then to realize it’s all for nothing—
And I have to do it all over again—
      It’s really so frustrating!”

p. 49“Stop talking!” he yelled as I started
to stumble over an excuse.
“Who can be patient with a guy
p. 50who has no more sense than
a clueless goose?

"To make me wait here instead of just telling me right away that this wasn't the house!" he said. "Alright, that's enough—go to bed! Don't just stand there staring like that, you fool!"

“It’s really easy to blame
      On me like that!
Why didn’t you ask my name
The moment you walked in?”
      I replied in anger.

“Of course it makes you a little anxious
      To walk such a long distance—
But how was I at fault for that?”
“Well, well!” he replied. “I have to say
      That’s not a bad point.”

“And you’ve really given me
      The best wine and food—
p. 51“Sorry for my outburst,” he said,
“But accidents like this, you know,
      They throw you off a bit.

“It's my fault after all, I realize—
      Shake hands, old Turnip-top!”
The name barely registered with me,
But since he likely meant it kindly,
      I decided to let it go.

“Good night, old Turnip-top, good night!
When I'm gone, maybe
They’ll send you some lesser Sprite,
Who’ll keep you in constant fear
And ruin your best naps.

“Tell him you won’t tolerate any tricks;
      Then, if he smirks and laughs,
Just be ready with a stick
(Make sure it’s sturdy and thick)
      And whack him on the knuckles!

“Then casually say, ‘Old coon!
      Maybe you don’t know
p. 52That if you don’t shape up, you’ll soon
Be laughing to a different song—
      So you’d better watch out!’”

“That’s the best way to deal with a Sprite
      Of that kind of trouble—
But wow! It’s getting light!
Goodnight, old Turnip-top, goodnight!”
      A nod, and he was gone.

“What’s up this?” I wondered. “Did I fall asleep?
      Or could I have been drinking?”
But soon a softer feeling washed over me,
and I sat and cried
      for about an hour, like it was nothing.

“No need for Bones to rush like that!”
      I cried. “Honestly, I doubt
p. 54If it was even worth his time to go—
And who is Tibbs, anyway,
      to create such a fuss about?”

“If Tibbs is anything like me,
      It’s possible,” I said,
“He won’t be too happy about being
Interrupted at three-thirty,
      After he’s all cozy in bed.

“And if Bones bothers him anyway—
      Squeaking and everything else,
Just like he was doing a moment ago—
I predict there’ll be a fight,
      And Tibbs will come out on top!”

Then, since my tears could never bring
      The friendly Phantom back,
It seemed to me the right thing
To mix another drink and sing
      The following lament.

Are you really gone, dear Ghost?
      Best of Friends!
p. 56Well then, goodbye, my little roast duck,
Goodbye, goodbye, my tea and toast,
      My pipe and cigars!

The colors of life are boring and dull,
      The pleasures of life are bland,
When you, my enchantress, are not here—
Old Brick, or rather, let me put it this way,
      Old Parallelepiped!’

Instead of singing the third verse,
      I stopped—suddenly, rather:
But, after such a great word
I felt that it would be ridiculous
      To continue any further.

So with a yawn I went on my way
      To find the cozy comfort,
And slept, dreaming until daybreak
Of Poltergeists and Spirits and Fairy
      And Leprechauns and Brownies!

For years, I haven't been visited
      By any kind of Sprite;
p. 57Yet still they resonate in my mind,
Those farewell words, so kindly spoken,
      “Old Turnip-top, good-night!”

Woman Clara Vere de Vere
      was eight years old, she said:
Every curl, gently swaying, was made of golden strands.

She took her small bowl:
      She won't gain fame from me:
For the lowliness of its nature will be strong enough to pull her down.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at your door:
Like a dog, he searches for boys who don't know that two plus two equals four.”

“Kind words are worth more than crowns,”
she said, looking at me with curiosity:
“It’s a gloomy, dark night, and I need to rush home for tea.”

There are certain things—like a spider, a ghost,
the income tax, gout, an umbrella for
three—
that I really dislike, but what I hate the most
is something they call the Sea.

p. 60Pour some salt water on the floor—
It's definitely ugly, you have to admit:
Imagine if it stretched a mile or more,
That’s pretty much like the Sea.

Beat a dog until it howls like crazy—
Cruel, but that’s fine for a wild time:
Imagine if he did it all day and night,
That would be like the Sea.

I saw a vision of nannies;
Tens of thousands walked past me—
All guiding kids with wooden shovels,
And this was by the Sea.

Who made those wooden spades?
Who carved them out of the tree?
I think no one did, but an idiot could—
Or someone who loved the sea.

It’s definitely nice and dreamy to float
With ‘thoughts as boundless, and souls as free’:
But, what if you feel really sick in the boat,
How do you feel about the sea?

p. 62There's an insect that people steer clear of
(That's where the verb 'to flee' comes from).
Where have you found it most irritating?
In places by the Sea.

If you enjoy your coffee with sandy bits,
   A definite touch of salt in your tea,
And a fishy flavor in your eggs—
   Go ahead and pick the Sea.

And if, with these treats to eat and drink,
You want to avoid any trace of grass or trees,
And you don't mind having wet feet all the time,
Then—I suggest the Sea.

For I have friends who live by the coast—
They are such pleasant friends to me!
It is when I’m with them that I wonder most
Why anyone enjoys the Sea.

They take me for a walk: even though I'm tired and stiff,
I eagerly agree to climb the heights;
And, after a fall or two from the cliff,
They kindly suggest going to the Sea.

p. 63I explore the rocks, and I find it amusing
   That they laugh with so much joy,
As I clumsily stumble into each pool
   That edges the chilly sea.

I have a horse—a really good horse—
I don't envy those
Who race across the plain at full speed
Until suddenly they stumble
They fall with an unexpected force
It is—a horse made of cloth.

I have a saddle—“Are you serious?
With stirrups, Knight, to boot?”
I didn't say that—I answer “No”—
It lacks those, you see:
It's a mutton saddle, look!
Part of the fleecy creature.

I have a bit—a really good bit—
As will be seen in time.
The horse's jaw it won't fit;
Its use is more sublime.
Fair Sir, what do you think of it?
It’s—this bit of rhyme.

[In a time of imitation, I can take no special credit for this small effort at something that is known to be quite easy. Any reasonably skilled writer, with the slightest sense of rhythm, could write for hours in the smooth meter of ‘The Song of Hiawatha.’ Having clearly stated that I don’t seek any attention for the simple wordplay in the following little poem, I kindly ask the honest reader to limit their critique to how the subject is handled.]

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the rosewood camera,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
He neatly put it all together.
In its case, it lay compactly,
Folded into almost nothing;
p. 67But he opened the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Until it looked all squares and rectangles,
Like a complicated shape
In the Second Book of Euclid.

He set this on a tripod—
Crouched under its dark cover—
Stretched out his hand, demanding silence—
Said, “Please stay still!”
It was a mystical, intense process.
   p. 68All the family arranged
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as they were captured,
Offered their own suggestions,
Their creative suggestions.
   First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Draped around a sturdy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Grip it firmly in his left hand;
He would keep his right hand tucked
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would gaze into the distance
With a look full of thought,
Like ducks caught in stormy weather.
   Grand and heroic was the idea:
Yet the picture failed completely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn’t help it.

Next, his better half found her courage;
She decided to have her picture taken.
She came dressed in a way that was hard to describe,
p. 70Adorned with jewels and satin,
Way too stunning for an empress.
She sat gracefully with her body turned slightly,
Wearing a smile that seemed almost unnatural,
Holding a bouquet
That was bigger than a cabbage.
While she was sitting there,
She couldn't stop chatting,
Like a monkey in a forest.
“Am I sitting still?” she asked him.
“Is my face turned enough to the side?
Should I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it fit in the picture?”
And the picture turned out completely wrong.

Next, the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested beautiful curves,
Curves that touched his entire figure,
Which the eye could follow onward,
Until they focused on the breast-pin,
Focused on the golden breast-pin.
He had learned it all from Ruskin
(Author of ‘The Stones of Venice,’
‘Seven Lamps of Architecture,’
‘Modern Painters,’ and some others);
p. 72And maybe he didn’t fully
Grasp his author’s meaning;
But, whatever the reason,
Everything turned out fruitless, as the picture
Ended in complete failure.

Next to him was the oldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of ‘passive beauty.’
Her idea of passive beauty
Was squinting with her left eye,
Was drooping with her right eye,
Was a smile that went sideways
To the corner of her nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Ignored the question,
Looked as if he hadn’t heard it;
But, when directly asked,
Smiled in his usual way,
Coughed and said it ‘didn’t matter,’
Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor was he wrong in this,
As the picture failed completely.
So it went with the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:
His hair was very rough and thick,
His face was very round and red,
His jacket was very dusty,
He was very fidgety.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he didn’t like:
Called him Johnny, ‘Daddy’s Darling,’
Called him Jacky, ‘Scrubby School-boy.’
And the picture was so awful,
Compared to the others
They seemed, to one’s confused imagination,
To have done a bit better.
Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
(‘Grouped’ isn’t quite the right word),
And, by lucky chance,
He finally got a picture
Where everyone looked good:
Each one came out a perfect likeness.
Then they all joined in and criticized it,
Unrestrainedly criticized it,
As the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly imagine.
‘It gives us such strange expressions—
Sullen, stupid, cheeky expressions.
Anyone would think we’re
(Anyone who didn’t know us)
The most unpleasant people!’
(Hiawatha seemed to agree,
Seemed to think it wasn’t unlikely).
All together their voices rang,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
Like dogs howling in concert,
Like cats wailing in chorus.
But my Hiawatha’s patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Had mysteriously vanished,
And he left that happy group.
He didn’t leave them slowly,
With the calm consideration,
The intense consideration
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
In a real rush,
Stating that he wouldn’t put up with it,
Saying in strong words
What he’d be before he’d tolerate it.
p. 77Hurriedly he packed his bags:
Hurriedly the porter rolled
On a barrow all his bags:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train took him:
Thus Hiawatha departed.

With the saddest music all day long
She eased her hidden pain:
At night she sighed, “I worry it was wrong
To take such happy words in vain.
Darling, a sweeter, sadder song
I’ll sing to you tomorrow.”

I thanked her, but I couldn't say
   That I was happy to hear it:
I left the house at dawn,
   And didn't go back to it
Until I hoped time had eased
   Her sadness, because nothing could lift it!

My miserable sister! Could you know
The terrible home you're keeping!
p. 80Your brother, soaked in daily sadness,
Is grateful when you’re sleeping;
For if I laugh, no matter how quietly,
When you’re awake, you’re weeping!

I took my sister the other day
(Please excuse the casual language)
To Sadler’s Wells to see the play
Hoping the new experience
Might shift her thoughts, from serious to fun
Cause some slight change.

I asked three fun-loving young guys from town
To join us in our fun,
Whose laughter, I thought, might help to drown
My sister’s sadness:
The lively Jones, the playful Brown,
And Robinson the cheerful.

The maid called us to dinner in a voice
That I had taught her myself,
Meant to calm my sister’s complaints
Like oil on choppy water:
p. 81I hurried to Jones, the lively Jones,
And asked him to take her.

He tried hard, with quick wit,
To make jokes about the weather—
To discuss the latest gossip—
To mention the price of leather—
She sighed, “Here I am with Sorrow:
Let’s mourn together!”

I insisted, “You’re wasting time, you know:
Delaying will ruin the venison.”
“My heart is wasted with my sadness!
There is no rest—in Venice, on
The Bridge of Sighs!” she softly quoted
From Byron and from Tennyson.

I don't need to mention the soup and fish
Quietly eaten in silence,
The sobs that came with each course,
And the emptiness that followed,
Nor my dark desire
To be the cheese I scooped out.

p. 82Some desperate attempts were made
   To start a conversation;
“Ma'am,” the playful Brown tried,
   “Which kind of pastime,
Hunting or fishing, have you chosen
   As your special activity?”

Her lips immediately turned downwards,
As if made of rubber.
“I really like hounds when they’re in full cry,” she said:
(Oh how I wanted to put her in her place!)
“When it comes to fish, I prefer a whale,
Because it’s so full of blubber!”

The night’s performance was “King John.”
“It’s boring,” she cried, “and lackluster!”
For a while, I let her tears continue,
She said they eased her sadness!
Finally, the curtain rose on
‘Bombastes Furioso.’

In vain we shouted; in vain we tried
To get her to laugh:
p. 83Her thoughtful looks drifted far
From the stage to the ceiling—
“Tier upon tier!” she said, and sighed;
And then there was silence.

[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was happy to see him when he visited, but didn’t seem to miss him when he didn’t come around.]

And can’t pleasures, while they last,
Be real unless, when they’re over,
They leave us shivering and shocked,
      With a sting of pain?
And can’t friends be loyal and true,
      And still handle separation?

And must I then, at Friendship’s call,
Calmly give up the little bit
(Trivial, I admit, it is and small)
      I have of happiness,
And hand my life over to the chains
      Of gloom and sadness?

p. 85And do you really think I should be quiet,
And full of pain,
Only when you decide to come
      And join me for dinner?
At other times be bitter and moody
      And lose weight every day?

Must he then only live to cry,
Who’d show his friendship is real and strong?
By day a lonely shadow creep,
      At night-time suffer,
Often waking from his broken sleep
      With a moan of pain?

The lover, if for a few days
His beautiful one is denied his gaze,
Doesn't sink into grief and wild confusion,
      But, being a smarter suitor,
He spends the time writing poems,
      And sends them to her.

And if the verse flows freely and quickly,
Until even the poet is shocked,
p. 86A heartfelt Valentine at last
      The mail will deliver,
When thirteen days have come and gone
      Of February.

Goodbye, dear friend, and when we see each other,
In barren desert or busy street,
Maybe before this week is over,
      Maybe tomorrow.
I hope to find your heart the place
      Of fading sorrow.

He sang a cheerful song bright and carefree,
He laughed out loud with pure joy:
A breeze blew in from the sea:

p. 88It moved across the dark, flat land—
It brushed his forehead as he sat—
It playfully took his hat away,

All at the feet of someone who stood
Like a spellbound maiden in a forest,
Frowning as darkly as she could.

With a big umbrella, tall and brown,
She expertly pinned it down,
Straight through the middle of the crown.

Then, with a cold and grim look,
Ignoring its damaged edge,
She picked it up and handed it to him.

For a moment, like someone in a dream, he stood,
Then awkwardly expressed his gratitude
In words that were almost rude:

For it had lost its shape and shine,
And it had cost him four pounds and nine pence,
And he was going out to eat.

p. 90“To have dinner!” she mocked in a sharp voice.
“To reduce yourself to a body
Dressed in a glow that isn’t yours!”

The tear dropped down to his chin:
There was something behind her smile
That set him ablaze inside.

"Don't call it 'radiance,'" he said:
"It's solid nourishment for me.
Dinner is Dinner; Tea is Tea."

And she said, “Yeah, so? But why stop?
Let your limited knowledge grow.
Just say, ‘Men are men, and geese are geese.’”

He groaned: he didn’t know what to say.
The thought “If only I could escape!”
Fought against the thought “But I have to stay.”

“To eat!” she screamed in dragon fury.
“To drink wines all foam and froth!
To smile at a tablecloth!

p. 91“Hey, can your noble spirit lower itself
To join the gluttonous crew
Who find comfort in the soup?

“Can you want pie or pastries?
Your good manners were enough,
Without such crude material things.”

“Yet well-mannered men,” he said softly,
“Don’t want to be fed:
Nor are they fine without the bread.”

Her face burned him before she spoke:
“There are,” she said, “some people
Who aren’t afraid of a joke.

“Such miserable souls exist: they claim their part
Of shared earth and shared air:
We encounter them here and there:

“We accept it—there's no way out—
A kind of half-human form
Resembling the man-like ape.”

p. 92“In all these theories,” he said,
“There has to be one clear exception.
That is, this Company.”

Baffled, she let out a wolf-like bark:
He, shooting aimlessly in the dark,
With a random arrow had hit the target.

She knew her defeat was clear,
Yet desperately fought with all her strength
To regain the upper hand.

Fixing her gaze on the beach,
As if she didn't hear what he said,
She replied, “Each contributes more than just themselves.”

He couldn't say yes or no:
He hesitated, "Gifts might fade away."
Yet he didn't really know what he meant to say.

“If that’s the case,” she replied directly,
“Each heart is in sync with the other.
What does it matter? Because the world is vast.”

p. 94“The world is just an idea,” he said:
“The immense, incomprehensible sea
Is just a concept—to me.”

And her terrifying answer fell
Upon his helpless head,
Like the weight of fifty pounds of lead.

“The good and great should always avoid
That reckless and shameless person
Who resorts to making a pun."

“The guy who smokes—that reads the Times—
That goes to Christmas Pantomimes—
Is capable of any crimes!”

He thought it was his chance to talk,
And, with a embarrassed and flushed face,
Sighed, “This is tougher than Bezique!”

But when she asked him, “Why is that?”
He felt his whiskers heat up,
And honestly admitted, “I don’t know.”

p. 96While, like wide waves of golden fields,
Or sunlight shining on a stained-glass window,
His color appeared and faded again.

Feeling sorry for his clear distress,
But with a hint of bitterness,
She said, “The More exceeds the Less.”

"A truth of such undeniable importance,"
he insisted, "and so far back in time,
it would be unnecessary to mention."

Roused into sudden passion, she
In a tone of cold malice:
“To others, yes: but not to you.”

But when she saw him tremble and shake,
And when he pleaded, “For pity’s sake!”
Once more in soft tones, she spoke.

“Thought in the mind still remains
That is provided by Intellect,
And within that Idea does hide:

p. 97“And he who longs to know the truth,
Can dive even deeper within,
And discover the Idea flowing from the Notion:

“And so the chain that wise people sought,
Is made into a glorious circle,
For ideas come from thought.”

So they continued on at a steady pace:
Yet slowly, you could see
A shadow forming on his face.

They strolled along the weathered beach;
Her words were quick to teach,
And every now and then he would plead

She lowered her sweet voice,
Since the conversation was all hers,
And he was as boring as anyone.

p. 99She insisted, “No cheese is made from chalk”:
And her monotonous chatter continued,
Rhythmic like the sound of footsteps.

Her voice was incredibly full and rich,
And when she finally asked him, “Which?”
It reached its highest pitch.

He gave a confused answer,
Drowned in the gloomy, moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.

He replied with words that made no sense to her:
Like an arrow shot from a bow, completely random,
He talked, but she paid no attention.

She didn't wait for his reply,
But with a heavy gaze looked down
And continued as if he weren't there.

Sound arguments and serious defenses,
Unusual questions raised about “Why?” and “Where did it come from?”
And confusing pieces of evidence.

p. 100When he, with his mind in chaos,
Weakly asked her to clarify,
She just repeated everything.

Wrenched with intense agony,
He spoke, ignoring Sound and Sense,
And indifferent to all consequences:

"Mind—I think—is Essence—Ent—
Abstract—that is—an Accident—
Which we—that is to say—I meant—"

When, breathing fast and with flushed cheeks,
Finally his speech quieted down,
She looked at him, and he felt defeated.

It didn't require her calm response:
She stared at him with a cold glare,
And he could neither fight nor escape.

While she analyzed, word by word,
His speech, partly understood and partly heard,
Like a cat with a little bird.

p. 102Then, having completely dismantled
His beliefs and laid them bare,
She went on to share her own.

“Will Man be Man? And will he
Think of nothing else but this,
Peaceful moments of calm happiness?

“What’s the point? Will his fevered eye
See through the towering nothingness
The scary phantom rush by?

“And hear silent screams that fill the air;
See mouths that open wide, and eyes that stare
And turn red in the dim light?”

"The meadows glowing with golden light,
The darkness falling from above,
The soft edges of the rocky Night?"

“Will he, now gray among his peers,
Through the heavy veil of his tears
See glimpses of his younger years,

p. 104“And listen to the sounds he recognized from before,
Old shuffling on the sandy floor,
Old knuckles rapping on the door?

“Yet still before him as he flies
One pale figure shall always appear,
And, manifesting in glassy eyes”

“The vision of a lost good,
Low looking through the twisted trees,
Will freeze the flow of his blood.”

Still from each fact, with awkward skill
And wild excitement, like a thrill
She pulled some slow, hesitant truth.

Till, like a quiet watermill,
When the summer sun has dried up the stream,
She came to a complete stop and was quiet.

Dead silence followed the chaos,
Just like when the packed bus
Arrives at the train station:

p. 105When the noise of the street
Is interrupted by the engine's muffled sound,
And you can hear the soft steps of the porters.

With her eyes always on the ground,
She silently moved her lips around,
And every now and then, she'd frown.

He looked at the calm sea,
And found joy in its peace,
And in that stillness, but she

To think for a moment felt right,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
It returned to her worn-out theme.

Still, he listened carefully
But couldn’t figure out what she meant:
She was neither profound nor articulate.

He noted the ripple on the sand:
The steady motion of her hand
Was all he could comprehend.

p. 106He imagined in dreams a living room,
Where thirteen unfortunate souls sat in darkness,
Waiting—he thought he knew for whom:

He saw them slouching here and there,
Each weakly curled up on a chair,
In positions of total hopelessness:

Oysters weren't any quieter than they were,
Since all their brains were drained away,
And they had nothing left to say—

Save one, who groaned, “Three hours have passed!”
Who shouted, “We can't wait any longer, John!
Tell them to put the dinner out!”

The vision faded: the ghosts were gone:
He saw once more that terrifying woman:
He heard again the words she spoke.

He walked away from her, and he turned to the side:
He sat down and watched the rising tide
Across the shores that were just dried.

p. 108He marveled at the clear waters,
The breeze that softly whispered in his ear,
The waves rolling in from far and near,

And why he had taken so long to hang on her every word:
“Honestly,” he said, “it was ridiculous.”

Not long after, this transport stayed put:
In just a moment's time
Quick tears were streaming down his face.

His heart stopped, frozen with fear;
A voiceless sound, neither far nor near,
He felt it and yet didn't quite hear.

p. 110“Tears don’t ignite the uncertain spark.
If that’s the case, why not? This statement
Has very unclear implications.”

“Her speech,” he said, “has caused this pain.
I find it easier to explain
The jargon of the howling sea,

“Or, lying next to a bubbling brook,
To read, with a blank expression,
An unreadable book.”

Low spoke the voice in his head,
In words thought more than spoken,
Silent as a ghost’s intended step:

“If you are less sharp than before,
Why did you abandon the voice of knowledge?
Why not hold on, hoping for more?”

“Instead of that,” he groaned in shock,
“I’d struggle in the depths of a vast cave,
Some repulsive vampire’s lavish feast.”

p. 112“It’s tough,” it replied, “to fit big themes within the small limits of your limited understanding.”

“Not at all,” he insisted, “not even once alone:
But there was something in her tone
That sent a chill right through me.”

“Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly harsh;
Her descriptions were quite strange."

“And yet, her responses were so impressive,
I couldn’t help but think she was clever;
I didn’t dare to criticize;

“Nor did I leave her until she got so caught up in a complicated argument that I ran out of things to think.”

A soft whisper quietly slipped,
“But truth is truth: you know you did.”
A little wink under the lid.

p. 113And, overwhelmed with fear,
He lowered his head to the ground,
And lay as if he were nearly dead

The whisper faded away—like a gentle breeze
Lost in the thick foliage of the trees—
It definitely did not ease his mind.

Once again, he wallowed in despair,
With his hands, through tangled hair,
More tightly clenched than they were before.

When, illuminated by the bright red of dawn,
The majestic mountain frowned,
“Tell me my mistake,” was all he said.

When, at noon, the blazing sky
Burned in his tired eyes,
Then his weary cry rose the loudest.

And when in the evening the merciless sun
Grinned darkly at the serious fun,
“Alas,” he sighed, “what have I done?”

p. 115But the saddest and darkest view
Was when the cold grip of heavy Night
Slammed him to the ground and held him tight.

Tortured, helpless, and alone,
Thunder muted his groans,
Bagpipes were sweet music to its tone:

“What? Always like this, in a gloomy cycle,
Will Pain and Deep Mystery
Chase me like an insomniac hound,

“With eager, bloodied jaws,
I remained unaware of the reason,
Not knowing what laws I had broken?”

The whisper in his ear felt
Like the gentle flow of a quiet stream,
Or a shadow from a forgotten dream,

The whisper shaking in the wind:
“Her destiny was linked with yours,”
So it spoke in his thoughts:

p. 117“Each one was like a doomed star:
Each was a curse and an obstacle to the other:
Each was better off apart from the other:

“Yeah, each was worse than an enemy:
You, a frightened fool, mumbling quietly,
And she, wave of sadness!”

[Why hasn’t Poetry ever gone through the process of Dilution that has benefited its sister art, Music? The Diluter starts with a few notes from a familiar tune, then adds a dozen bars of their own, then a few more notes from the original melody, and so on. This way, the listener is spared, if not entirely from the chance of recognizing the melody, at least from the overwhelming emotions it might evoke in a more intense form. This process is called “setting” by Composers, and anyone who has ever suddenly found themselves dumped in a pile of mortar will see the truth in this clever phrase.]

For really, just like a true Epicure savors a piece of the finest venison—every fiber seems to say “Amazing!”—but still eats big spoonfuls of oatmeal porridge and shellfish before going back to the delicious treat: and just as the perfect wine expert allows himself just one delicate sip of claret, then knocks back a pint or more of cheap beer: so too—

p. 119I never loved a dear Gazelle—
   Nor anything that cost me much:
High prices benefit those who sell,
   But why should I care for such?

To make me happy with his gentle dark eyes
   My son is happily trotting home from school;
He’s been in a fight but can’t explain why—
   He’s always been a bit of a fool!

But when he got to know me well,
   He kicked me out, that irritable guy:
And when I dyed my hair, that beauty
   Could notice the difference, and then admire

And love me, it was bound to turn
A muddy green or bright blue:
While one could see, with a glance,
The ever-victorious carrot through.

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the living room floor, full of tricks and fun.

Five cheerful girls, aged ten to six:
Sitting down for lessons—no more time for games.

Five growing girls, from ages fifteen to eleven:
Music, art, languages, and enough food for seven!

p. 122Five charming girls, aged Twenty to Sixteen:
To every young man who visits, I say “Now tell me which one you mean!”

Five stylish girls, the youngest being twenty-one:
But, if no one proposes, what can be done?

Five flashy girls—but thirty is an age
When girls can be charming, but they somehow don’t captivate.

Five fashionable girls, thirty-one or older:
So kind to the shy young men they used to snub!

Understood! Please provide the text you would like modernized.

Five passé girls—Their age? Well, who cares!
We run along together, just like everyone else:
But the former “carefree bachelor” starts to think he knows
The solution to that age-old question “where the money goes”!

“How can I be a poet?
How can I write in rhyme?
p. 124You once told me ‘the very wish
Contributes to the sublime.’
So tell me how! Don’t brush me off
With your ‘another time’!”

The old man smiled when he saw him,
To hear his sudden outburst;
He liked that the kid spoke his mind
With enthusiasm;
And thought, "There’s no boring stuff in him,
Nor any hesitance."

“And would you be a poet
Before you’ve been to school?
Ah, well! I hardly thought you
So complete a fool.
First learn to be unpredictable—
A very simple rule.

“For first you write a sentence,
And then you break it down;
Then mix the pieces, and sort them out
Just as they happen to land:
p. 125The order of the phrases makes
No difference at all.

“Then, if you want to stand out,
Remember what I say,
Those important qualities start
With capital letters always:
The True, the Good, the Beautiful—
Those are the things that matter!

“Next, when you describe
a shape, sound, or color;
Don’t spell it out directly,
but suggest it a little;
And learn to view everything
with a kind of mental tilt.”

“For example, if I wanted to, Sir,
To talk about mutton-pies,
Should I say ‘dreams of fluffy sheep
Stuck in a wheat-filled pen’?”
“Well, yes,” the old man replied: “that line
Would work just fine."

p. 126“Next, there are adjectives
That fit with any word—
Just like Harvey’s Reading Sauce
Works with fish, meat, or poultry—
Words like ‘wild,’ ‘lonely,’
‘weary,’ and ‘strange’
Are definitely better.”

“And will it work, oh will it work
   To take them all together—
Like ‘the wild man went his tired way
   To a strange and lonely pump’?”
“No, no! You must not rush
   To such conclusions.”

“Such descriptions, like spice,
Add flavor to what you write;
And, if you use them sparingly,
They sharpen the interest:
But if you use too many,
You ruin the whole thing!”

“Lastly, regarding the arrangement:
You should show your reader,
p. 128They must take whatever information they
Can get and shouldn’t expect any
early reveal of the direction
And intent of your poem.

“Therefore, to test his patience—
How much he can endure—
Mention no locations, names, or dates,
And always make sure
Throughout the poem to remain
Consistently unclear.

“First decide on the limit
To which it will extend:
Then fill it up with ‘Padding’
(Ask a friend for some):
Your great Sensation verse
You place towards the end.”

“And what is a sensation,
   Grandfather, please tell me?
I don't think I've ever heard the word
   Used like this before today:
p. 129Be kind enough to mention one
   ‘For example.’”

And the old man, looking sadly
Across the garden lawn,
Where here and there a dew drop
Still glittered in the dawn,
Said, “Go to the Adelphi,
And see the ‘Colleen Bawn.’”

“The word is thanks to Boucicault—
The theory is his,
Where Life turns into a Spasm,
And History a Whiz:
If that isn’t Sensation,
I don’t know what is.”

“Now give it a shot before Inspiration
Loses its current spark—”
“And then,” his grandson piped up,
“We’ll publish it, you know:
Green cloth—gold lettering on the back—
In a 12mo!”

p. 130Then the old man smiled proudly
To see the eager boy
Rush excitedly for his pen and ink
And his blotter—
But when he thought about publishing,
His expression turned serious and sad.

When I sit on the sandy shore,
Next to the salty sea waves,
And end up in tears
Because I can’t bring myself to shave—
p. 132A soft voice in my ear
Asks why I feel this way.

I reply, “If that jerk Jones
were to see me here,
he’d shout my name in voices
that are annoying to hear:
He teases me for being heavy
(Which always gets on my nerves).”

Ah, me! I see him on the cliff!
Goodbye, goodbye to hope,
If he looks this way, and if
He’s got his telescope!
No matter where I run,
My annoying rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him for dinner;
And when I find someone charming,
And promise to either win her or die,
That guy (he's skinny and I'm heavy)
Is always sure to show up and steal her away!

p. 134The girls (just like them!) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what they find so amazing
About him that they admire?
They shout, “He’s so smooth and slim,
It’s such a pleasure to look at him!”

They disappear in a cloud of tobacco smoke,
Those dreamy girls—
I feel a sudden jolt
Between my shoulder blades—
“Hey, Brown, my guy! You’re getting chubby!”
(I knew he would catch on!)

“My growth is not your business, Sir!”
“No more it is, my boy!
But if it’s yours, as I assume,
Well, Brown, I congratulate you!
A man whose business is thriving like this,
Is just the kind of man to know!

“It’s not really safe talking here—
   I should probably move out of reach:
p. 135 For a weight like yours, I’m worried,
   It’s bound to sink the shore!”—
Insult me just because I’m heavy!
I swear I’ll go and challenge him!

Ah, it was right here,
            In that summer long ago,
         Atalanta did not
            Find my company dull,
Nor respond to my sweetest words with “I’ve
      heard all that nonsense before.”

She wore the brooch I had bought
            And the necklace and sash on,
         And I thought her heart
            Was alive to my passion;
And she styled her hair in the way that
      the Empress had made popular.

I had gone to the play
            With my amazing friend—
         But no matter what I said,
            She insisted she was tired,
p. 137That “the place was so packed and hot, and
      she couldn’t stand that Dundreary.”

Then I thought, "Lucky guy!
            It’s for you that she whimpers!”
And I noticed with joy
            Those amazing simpers:
And I said, “This is delicious!”—a       phrase I had picked up from the Devonshire shrimpers.

p. 138And I promised “It will be said
            I’m a lucky guy,
         When the breakfast is laid out,
            When the drinkers are happy,
When the icing on the wedding cake is white,
      and the bright orange blossoms are yellow!”

O that fading yawn!
            O those expressive eyes!
         I was intoxicated by
            the dawn
of an amazing realization—
I was pierced by a glance, I was defeated by a tear,
      by a storm of sighs.

Then I whispered, “I see
            The sweet secret you’re keeping.
         And the longing for ME
            That you’re wistfully crying over!
And the question is ‘License or Banns?’,
      though it’s clear Banns are the cheapest.”

p. 139“Be my hero,” I said,
            “And let me be Leander!”
         But I didn’t catch her reply—
            Something that ended with “gander”—
Because the bus was rattling so loudly that no
      one could quite understand her.

The lady stood at her tall window,
With her little dog at her feet;
Through the window, she could see
The people passing in the street,

“There’s someone at the door,
And knocking at the latch:
Now speak and say, my little bird,
If I should let him in.”

Then up and spoke the parrot
That flew above her head:
“Go let him in who turns the key:
He has come to marry you.”

O when he came into the parlor,
A sorrowful man was he!
p. 141“And don’t you know your lover again,
So well that loves you?”

“And how would I know you loved me, Sir,
That have been so long away?
And how would I know you loved me, Sir?
You never told me so.”

Said—“My dear lady,” and the salt, salty tear
came running down his cheek,
“I have sent my love's tokens
for many, many weeks.

p. 142“Oh, didn’t you get the rings, Lady,
The rings of the gold so fine?
I know that I have sent to you
Eighty, eighty-nine.”

“They came to me,” said that fair lady.
“Wow, they were flimsy things!”
Said—“that chain of gold, my dog to hold,
It is made of those same rings.”

“And didn’t you get the locks, the locks,
The locks of my own black hair,
p. 143Which I sent by post, which I sent by box,
Which I sent by the carrier?”

“They came to me,” said that fair lady;
“And I beg you, send no more!”
Said—“that cushion so red, for my puppy’s head,
It is stuffed with these locks of hair.”

“And didn’t you get the letter, Lady,
Tied with a silk string,
Which I sent to you from the far country,
A message of love to bring?”

“It came to me from the distant land
With its silky string and all;
But it wasn't paid for,” said that noble lady,
“So I made them take it away.”

“O what a shame that you sent it back,
It was written so clearly and well!
Now the message it delivered, and the favor it requested,
I must just say it myself.”

Then up and spoke the parrot,
So wisely he advised.
“Now say it the right way:
Go down on your knees!”

The lover turned both red and pale,
Went down on one knee:
“O Lady, hear the sorrowful tale
That has to be told to you!

p. 144“For five long years, and five long years,
I pursued you with my glances;
By nods and winks, by smiles and tears,
Just like I learned in books.

“For ten long years, oh weary hours!
I courted you with signs;
By sending gifts, by sending flowers,
By sending Valentines.

“For five long years, and five long years,
I have lived in the distant land,
Until your heart should be more inclined
To care for me more tenderly."

“Now thirty years have gone by,
I’ve come from a foreign land:
I’ve come to finally tell you my love—
O Lady, give me your hand!”

The lady didn’t turn pale or red,
But she gave a sad smile:
“Such a courtship as yours, my man,” she
Said,
“Takes a long and tiring while!”

p. 146And out came the show-off with a laugh,
A laugh full of bitter scorn:
“A courtship done like this,
It shouldn’t be tolerated!”

With that, the dog barked loudly,
And he ran back and forth,
And pulled and tugged at his gold chain,
All to bite the man.

“Oh be quiet, sweet parrot!
   Oh be quiet, dear pup!
There's something I really want to say,
   He needs to hear it!”

Aye louder screamed that lady fair
To drown her doggy’s bark:
Ever the lover shouted more
To make that lady hark:

Shrill and even shriller, the parrot
Raised his furious squawk:
I bet the dog’s voice that day
Was louder than all!

p. 148The servants
Sat by the kitchen fire:
They heard such a racket from the parlor inside
That it made them very curious.

Out spoke the boy in buttons
(I guess he wasn't skinny),
“Now who will go to the parlor,
And stop this terrible noise?”

And they have taken a handkerchief,
Cast their lots in,
For who will take the parlor go,
And stop that deadly noise.

When that boy was chosen
   To handle the scary noise,
“Go in,” they shouted, “no matter what
   Happens, you prince of button-boys!”

So, he has taken a flexible cane
To whack that dog so fat:
The dog yelped, the dog cried
The louder every time for that.

p. 150Since then, he has taken a mutton bone—
The dog stopped his barking,
And followed down the kitchen stairs
That little prince of button boys!

Then sadly spoke that lovely lady,
With a frown on her brow:
“O dearer to me is my little dog
Than a dozen like you!

“No use, no use for sighs and tears:
No use at all to worry:
Since you’ve waited so long for thirty years,
You can wait a little longer yet!”

Sadly, he walked across the floor
And turned the latch:
Sadly, he went through the door
Where he had come in.

“O gin I had a parrot
To fly above my head,
To tell me what I should say,
I would have been married by now.

p. 151“If I find another lady,”
He said with sighs and tears,
“I know my courting won't last
Another thirty years

“For gin I find a lady chic,
   Exactly to my liking,
I’ll ask the question, yes or no,
   In twenty years at most.”

[These are made up of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.]

No. I. was written at the request of some young friends who had attended a ball at an Oxford Commemoration. It also serves as an example of how to create a connected poem using the Double Acrostic instead of the usual format of random stanzas on every possible topic, which is just as engaging to read straight through as a page from an encyclopedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each following stanza reveals one of the cross “lights.”

No. II. was written after watching Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play “Hamlet.” In this case, the first stanza describes the two main words.

No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert’s play “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”

p. 153I

There was an old City, struck down
With a bizarre madness, and for many days
They strolled from morning to evening the busy town,
And partied the night away.

I asked why: the old man looked upset:
They gestured toward a tall, gray building,
And in a rough voice said, “Come in, my boy,
And then you’ll understand everything.”

Yet what do all these joys mean to me
   Who's mind is filled with numbers and unknowns?

x² + 7x + 53 = ¹¹/₃

p. 154But something whispered, “It’ll be over soon:
Bands can’t play forever, nor can ladies smile:
Hang in there and tolerate the annoying entertainment
Just for a little while!”

A change came over my vision—it was night:
We carved a path through a crazed crowd:
The horses, wildly bucking, filled us with fear:
The chariots raced by.

Within a marble hall, a river flowed—
A vibrant tide, part muslin and part cloth:
And here, one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet held back her anger;

And here someone offered a thirsty beauty
(His words mostly lost in those melodic roars)
p. 155Some frozen food (there was plenty there),
A toothache in every spoonful.

There comes a joyful break, because human strength
Can't keep dancing endlessly;
And everyone eventually hits the point
Of complete exhaustion.

At that moment, women learn to say no,
   To partners who push them too hard,
A straightforward yet firm refusal—
         Photographers love that.

There comes an inviting call—hope comes back,
And tired eyes light up, and hearts race:
Corks keep popping, and busy knives
Serve up tongue and chicken.

p. 156Filled with excitement, the crowd surges back:
And it’s all jumbled conversations and chaotic movement—
Just like a swaying field of golden wheat,
Or a raging ocean.

And so they spend the time that Nature
Intended for restful sleep and thoughtful snores,
On constant noise and pointless fun
And wasting shoes and floors.

And One (we won't name him) who avoids the flowers,
Who fears the dances and steers clear of the salads,
They condemn to spend his hours in solitude,
Writing acrostic-ballads.

How late it is getting! The hour has definitely passed
   That should have warned us with its double knock?
p. 157The twilight is fading, and morning is finally arriving—
         “Oh, Uncle, what time is it?”

The Uncle nods seriously and gives a knowing wink.
It might mean a lot, but how can anyone tell?
He opens his mouth—yet I think,
         No words of wisdom come out.

Empress of Art, for you I weave
This wreath with my not-so-great skill.
Forgive my Muse for every shaky line,
And for the effort, please accept the intention!

O day of tears! Where does this grim specter come from,
Parting, like Death’s cold river, separating souls that love?
p. 158Is he not bound to you, as you are to him,
By vows, unspoken here, yet heard above?

And still it lives, that sharp and upward flame,
Lives in his eye, and shakes in his tone:
And these intense words of anger only reveal
A heart that beats for you, for you alone!

But all is lost: that great mind
messed up,
Like sweet bells out of tune, a sad sight to witness!
“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so goes his lament,
“Doubt Truth itself, but never doubt my love for you!”

A more sorrowful sight: your old father
Disgracing his gray hair with deceitful tricks!
p. 159And do you now question whether Truth is a liar?
And will you die, having forgotten how to smile?

No, get out of here! Leave all your charming ways
And the light scent of your scattered flowers:
In holy silence, wait for the appointed days,
And cry away the heavy-footed hours.

The air is alive with vibrant light
   And filled with laughter and singing:
Young hearts race with joy,
And flags flutter, and bells are chiming:
But silence comes with the setting sun,
And the fun and games are done.
         Ah, what a day

p. 160Take a break, you old ladies!
The kettle's boiling, and the fire is flickering.
Enjoy the magical drink
That fills your heart with bright dreams!
Because Youth and Joy won't stick around,
And you are faded, weary, and gray.
Oh, what a pity!

O beautiful cold face! O graceful form,
For human desire burning wildly!
O tired air of silent despair,
From marble created, to marble changing!
“Don’t leave us like this!” we lovingly ask.
“We can’t let you go away!”
Ah, what a shame!

My First is unique
My Second is more numerous:
My Third is by far the most numerous—
So many, I insist
It can hardly be counted!

p. 161My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by those who believe
In magic: my simple Third
Too often follows hopes that are absurd
And convincing deceivers.

My first attempt at gaining wisdom—
      A sad failure!
My second, men respected as wise:
My third, from the heights of wisdom, falls
      To the depths of crazy folly.

My First is getting older every day:
      My Second’s age has come to an end:
My Third has an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
      Through centuries it goes on.

My Whole? I need a poet's pen
      To capture her countless aspects:
The queen and the servant of men—
A mountain peak and a cave
      Of dark and dangerous labyrinths—

p. 162A flashing light—a brief shadow—
      The start, the finish, and the essence
Of everything that human creativity has produced
Or intelligence has imagined! Go, seek her help,
      If you want to solve my puzzle!

[Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who crave “funding.”]

Blow, blow your trumpets until they break,
You small-minded people!
And tell them to gather behind you—
Gold-hungry parasites, countless swarms!

Fill the air with desperate cries—
“Give us our reward before we think or write!
Without your Gold, simply knowing isn't enough
To satisfy our greedy desires!”

And, where great Plato walked calmly,
Or Newton stopped with a thoughtful gaze,
Rush to the hunt with muddy hooves
And the noise of Babel from the pigsty

p. 164Let you take the rewards, let them have the credit:
We won’t take what they deserve,
Nor annoy the spirits of the past
By mentioning them with you.

They searched for and achieved lasting fame:
They worked not for reward or gratitude:
Their faces are flushed with genuine shame
For you, the modern charlatans!

Who preach about Justice—plead with tears
   That Love and Mercy should grow—
While listening with satisfied ears
   To the moaning of some tortured hound:

Who talks about Wisdom—hold on,
Lest Wisdom come after you in anger,
Crushing, with a heel that won’t forgive,
The pests that stand in her way!

Go, crowd each other’s living rooms,
You idols of a small group:
Show off for your short time in borrowed feathers,
And make your cheap trumpets squeak.

p. 166Spice up your boring conversations with stolen bits
Of knowledge from a better era,
And sweeten each other’s egos
With the smooth grease of mutual flattery:

And when you reach the highest point,
And stand in the clear light of glory,
And hold the reward for all your struggles—
So many hundreds of pounds a year—

Then let Fame's banner be raised!
Sing songs of celebration for a victory achieved!
You lights, that would illuminate the world,
And cast a shadow on the Sun—

Who will still shine His brilliant rays,
One clear stream, from East to West,
When you have spent your short time
And weakly flickered into rest!