Lena decamped with some silver, Jewelry, laces and fur-- She was loving and kind, with a Socialist mind-- And we learned about servants from her.

Tillie blew in from the Indies, Black as the middle of night-- Cooked like a regular Savarin-- Kitchen was shiny an' bright.

Everything ran along lovely Until--it was bound to occur-- She ran away with a porter one day-- But we learned about servants from her.

We've taken our cooks where we've found them, Yellow and black and white; Some was better than others, But none of the lot was right.

And the end of it's only worry And trouble and bother and fuss-- When you answer an ad., think of those we have had And learn about servants from us.

Our Dum'd Animals

What time I seek my virtuous couch to steal Some surcease from the labours of the day, Ere silence like a poultice comes to heal-- In short, when I prepare to hit the hay; Ere slumber's chains (I quote from Moore) have bound me, I hear a lot of noises all around me.

Time was when falling off the well-known log Were harder far than falling off to sleep; But that was ere my neighbour's gentle dog Began to think he was defending sheep.

From twelve to two his barking and his howling Accompanies two torn cats' nightly yowling.

At two-ten sharp the parrot in the flat Across the way his monologue essays.

At three, again, as Gilbert says, the cat; At four a milkman's horse, exulted, neighs.

At six-fifteen, nor does it ever vary, I hear the dulcet tones of a canary.

Each living thing I love; I love the birds; The beasts in field and forest, too, I love, But I have writ these poor, if metric words, To query which, by all the pow'rs above, Of all the animals--pray tell me, some one-- Is called by any courtesy a dumb one?

A Soft Susurrus

A soft susurrus in the night, A song whose singer is unseen-- 'Twere poetry itself to write "A soft susurrus in the night!"

I know, as those mosquitos bite, That I forgot to fix that screen, "A soft susurrus in the night!"

A song whose singer is unseen.

A Summer Summary

Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot?

Or declare I can't endure Such a torrid temperature?

Be it hotter than the flames South Gehenna Junction claims, If it be not so to me, What care I how hot it be?

Shall I say I love the town Praised by Robinson and Browne?

Shall I say, "In summer heat Old Manhattan can't be beat?"

Be it luring as a bar, Or my neighbour's motor-car, If I think it is pazziz What care I how fine it is?

Shall I prate of rural joys Far from civic smoke and noise?

Shall I, like the others, drool "But the nights are always cool?"

If I hate to rise at six Shall I praise the suburbs? Nix!

If the country's not for me, What care I how good it be?

Town or country, cool or hot, Differs nothing, matters not; For to quote that Roman cuss, Why dispute "de gustibus?"

If to this or that one should Take a fancy, it is good.

If these rhymes look good to me, What care I how bad they be?

A Quatrain

A quatrain fills a little s.p.a.ce, Although it's pretty small, And oftentimes, as in this case, It has no point at all.

To a Light Housekeeper

(Who hitches laundering articles to the curtain string and pastes them on the pane.)

Lady, thou that livest Just across the way, If a hang thou givest What the people say, If a cuss thou carest What a poet thinks-- Hearken, if thou darest, Most immodest minx!

Though thy gloves thou tiest, To the curtain string, Though the things thou driest Gird me while I sing, Hankies and inventions Of the lacy tribe-- Things I may not mention, Let alone describe.

These I mutely stand for Though the sight offend, THIS I reprimand for; Take it from a friend:

Cease to pin thy tresses To the window sill, Or I'll tell the presses-- Honestly, I will.

How?

How can I work when you play the piano, Feminine person above?

How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano Singing: "Ah, Love--"?

How can I dream of a subject aesthetic, Far from the purlieus of prose?

How, with the call of the peripatetic "High! High cash clo'es!"?

How can I write when the children are crying?

How can I poetize--how?

How can I help imper_fect_ versifying?

(There is some now.)

How can I bathe in the thought--waves of beauty?

How, with my nerves on the slant, Can I perform my poetical duty?

Frankly, I can't.

Ballade of the Breakfast Table