Chimneysmoke Part 1

Chimneysmoke.

by Christopher Morley.

_Author's Note_

There are a number of poems in this collection that have not previously appeared in book form. But, as a few readers may discern, many of the verses are reprinted from _Songs for a Little House_(1917), _The Rocking Horse_ (1919) and _Hide and Seek_ (1920). There is also one piece revived from the judicious obscurity of an early escapade, _The Eighth Sin_, published in Oxford in 1912. It is on Mr. Thomas Fogarty's delightful and sympathetic drawings that this book rests its real claim to be considered a new venture. To Mr. Fogarty, and to Mr. George H. Doran, whose constant kindness and generosity contradict all the traditions about publishers and minor poets, the author expresses his permanent grat.i.tude.

_Roslyn, Long Island._

TO THE LITTLE HOUSE

Dear little house, dear shabby street, Dear books and beds and food to eat!

How feeble words are to express The facets of your tenderness.

How white the sun comes through the pane!

In tinkling music drips the rain!

How burning bright the furnace glows!

What paths to shovel when it snows!

O dearly loved Long Island trains!

O well remembered joys and pains....

How near the housetops Beauty leans Along that little street in Queens!

Let these poor rhymes abide for proof Joy dwells beneath a humble roof; Heaven is not built of country seats But little queer suburban streets!

March, 1917.

A GRACE BEFORE WRITING

This is a sacrament, I think!

Holding the bottle toward the light, As blue as lupin gleams the ink; May Truth be with me as I write!

That small dark cistern may afford Reunion with some vanished friend,-- And with this ink I have just poured May none but honest words be penned!

DEDICATION FOR A FIREPLACE

This hearth was built for thy delight, For thee the logs were sawn, For thee the largest chair, at night, Is to the chimney drawn.

For thee, dear la.s.s, the match was lit To yield the ruddy blaze-- May Jack Frost give us joy of it For many, many days.

TAKING t.i.tLE

To make this house my very own Could not be done by law alone.

Though covenant and deed convey Absolute fee, as lawyers say, There are domestic rites beside By which this house is sanctified.

By kindled fire upon the hearth, By planted pansies in the garth, By food, and by the quiet rest Of those brown eyes that I love best, And by a friend's bright gift of wine, I dedicate this house of mine.

When all but I are soft abed I trail about my quiet stead A wreath of blue tobacco smoke (A charm that evil never broke) And bring my ritual to an end By giving shelter to a friend.

These done, O dwelling, you become Not just a house, but truly Home!

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_And by a friend's bright gift of wine,_ _I dedicate this house of mine_]

THE SECRET

It was the House of Quietness To which I came at dusk; The garth was lit with roses And heavy with their musk.

The tremulous tall poplar trees Stood whispering around, The gentle flicker of their plumes More quiet than no sound.

And as I wondered at the door What magic might be there, The Lady of Sweet Silences Came softly down the stair.

ONLY A MATTER OF TIME

Down-slipping Time, sweet, swift, and shallow stream, Here, like a boulder, lies this afternoon Across your eager flow. So you shall stay, Deepened and dammed, to let me breathe and be.

Your troubled fluency, your running gleam Shall pause, and circle idly, still and clear: The while I lie and search your gla.s.sy pool Where, gently coiling in their lazy round, Unseparable minutes drift and swim, Eddy and rise and brim. And I will see How many crystal bubbles of slack Time The mind can hold and cherish in one _Now_!

Now, for one conscious vacancy of sense, The stream is gathered in a deepening pond, Not a mere moving mirror. Through the sharp Correct reflection of the standing scene The mind can dip, and cleanse itself with rest, And see, slow spinning in the lucid gold, Your liquid motes, imperishable Time.

It cannot be. The runnel slips away: The clear smooth downward sluice begins again, More brightly slanting for that trembling pause, Leaving the sense its conscious vague unease As when a sonnet flashes on the mind, Trembles and burns an instant, and is gone.