Chimneysmoke Part 4

And though I grant that I have prayed That we might find a serving-maid, I'd scullion all my days, I think, To see Her smile across the sink!

I wash, She wipes. In water hot I souse each dish and pan and pot; While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs, And rubs himself against my legs.

The man who never in his life Has washed the dishes with his wife Or polished up the silver plate-- He still is largely celibate.

One warning: there is certain ware That must be handled with all care: The Lord Himself will give you up If you should drop a willow cup!

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_But heavy feeding complicates_ _The task by soiling many plates._]

THE CHURCH OF UNBENT KNEES

As I went by the church to-day I heard the organ cry; And goodly folk were on their knees, But I went striding by.

My minster hath a roof more vast: My aisles are oak trees high; My altar-cloth is on the hills, My organ is the sky.

I see my rood upon the clouds, The winds, my chanted choir; My crystal windows, heaven-glazed, Are stained with sunset fire.

The stars, the thunder, and the rain, White sands and purple seas-- These are His pulpit and His pew, My G.o.d of Unbent Knees!

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN

The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, The coal supply is virtually done, And at this price, indeed it does not seem As though we could afford another ton.

Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; The radiators lose their temperature: How ill avail, on such a frosty night, The "short and simple flannels of the poor."

Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid, The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep, No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.

Can Morris-chair or papier-mache bust Revivify the failing pressure-gauge?

Chop up the grand piano if you must, And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage!

Full many a can of purest kerosene The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean To bring my morning coffee to a boil.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _How ill avail, on such a frosty night_....]

THE OLD SWIMMER

I often wander on the beach Where once, so brown of limb, The biting air, the roaring surf Summoned me to swim.

I see my old abundant youth Where combers lean and spill, And though I taste the foam no more Other swimmers will.

Oh, good exultant strength to meet The arching wall of green, To break the crystal, swirl, emerge Dripping, taut, and clean.

To climb the moving hilly blue, To dive in ecstasy And feel the salty chill embrace Arm and rib and knee.

What brave and vanished laughter then And tingling thighs to run, What warm and comfortable sands Dreaming in the sun.

The crumbling water spreads in snow, The surf is hissing still, And though I kiss the salt no more Other swimmers will.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Old Swimmer]

THE MOON-SHEEP

The moon seems like a docile sheep, She pastures while all people sleep; But sometimes, when she goes astray, She wanders all alone by day.

Up in the clear blue morning air We are surprised to see her there, Grazing in her woolly white, Waiting the return of night.

When dusk lets down the meadow bars She greets again her lambs, the stars!

SMELLS

Why is it that the poets tell So little of the sense of smell?

These are the odors I love well:

The smell of coffee freshly ground; Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned; Or onions fried and deeply browned.

The fragrance of a fumy pipe; The smell of apples, newly ripe; And printers' ink on leaden type.

Woods by moonlight in September Breathe most sweet; and I remember Many a smoky camp-fire ember.

Camphor, turpentine, and tea, The balsam of a Christmas tree, These are whiffs of gramarye ...

_A s.h.i.+p smells best of all to me!_