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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Impertinent Poems, by Edmund Vance Cooke
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Impertinent Poems
+
+Author: Edmund Vance Cooke
+
+Illustrator: Gordon Ross
+
+Release Date: September 20, 2010 [EBook #33770]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPERTINENT POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Josephine Paolucci
+and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
+https://www.pgdp.net.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: There's one you must get next to
+
+_Page 57._]
+
+
+
+
+Impertinent Poems
+
+By
+
+Edmund Vance Cooke
+
+Author of
+
+"Chronicles of the Little Tot"
+"Told to the Little Tot"
+"Rimes to Be Read"
+Etc.
+
+With Illustrations by
+
+Gordon Ross
+
+    _Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
+    And whether he's slow, or spry,
+    It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts
+    But only--how did you die?_
+
+New York
+Dodge Publishing Company
+220 East 23rd Street
+
+Copyright, 1903, by
+Edmund Vance Cooke
+
+Copyright, 1907, by
+Dodge Publishing Company
+
+
+
+
+A PRE-IMPERTINENCE.
+
+
+Anticipating the intelligent critic of "Impertinent Poems," it may well
+be remarked that the chief impertinence is in calling them poems. Be
+that as it may, the editors and publishers of "The Saturday Evening
+Post," "Success" and "Ainslee's," and, in a lesser degree,
+"Metropolitan," "Independent," "Booklovers'" and "New York Herald" share
+with the author the reproach of first promoting their publicity. That
+they are now willing to further reduce their share of the burden by
+dividing it with the present publishers entitles them to the thanks of
+the author and the gratitude of the book-buying public.
+
+                                        E. V. C.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+INDEX.
+
+
+                                                                 PAGE
+
+Are You You?                                                       59
+
+Better                                                             83
+
+Between Two Thieves                                                71
+
+Blood is Red                                                       33
+
+Bubble-Flies, The                                                  61
+
+Choice, The                                                        68
+
+Conscience Pianissimo                                              47
+
+Conservative, The                                                  40
+
+Critics, The                                                       89
+
+Dead Men's Dust                                                    11
+
+Desire                                                             99
+
+Diagnosis                                                          35
+
+Dilettant, The                                                     38
+
+Distance and Disenchantment                                        77
+
+Don't Take Your Troubles to Bed                                    22
+
+Don't You?                                                         16
+
+Eternal Everyday, The                                              21
+
+Failure                                                            23
+
+Familiarity Breeds Contempt                                        95
+
+Family Resemblance                                                 79
+
+First Person Singular, The                                         66
+
+Forget What the Other Man Hath                                     85
+
+Get Next                                                           57
+
+Good                                                               24
+
+Grill, The                                                         30
+
+How Did You Die?                                                  103
+
+Humbler Heroes                                                     45
+
+Hush                                                               41
+
+In Nineteen Hundred and Now                                        14
+
+Island, The                                                        43
+
+Let's Be Glad We're Living                                         26
+
+Move                                                               55
+
+Need                                                               81
+
+Pass                                                               51
+
+Plug                                                               92
+
+Price, The                                                         60
+
+Publicity                                                          53
+
+Qualified                                                          63
+
+Saving Clause, The                                                 70
+
+Song of Rest, A                                                    97
+
+Spectator, The                                                     73
+
+Spread Out                                                         37
+
+Squealer, The                                                      75
+
+Success                                                            28
+
+There Is, Oh, So Much                                             101
+
+Vision, The                                                        32
+
+What Are You Doing?                                                65
+
+What Sort Are You?                                                 87
+
+Whet, The                                                          86
+
+World Runs On, The                                                 49
+
+You Too                                                            18
+
+
+
+
+IMPERTINENT POEMS
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+DEAD MEN'S DUST.
+
+
+    You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.)
+            Why?
+    You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend
+    _Editions de luxe_ on a thirsty friend.
+    You can buy any one of the poetry bunch
+    For the price you pay for a business lunch.
+    Don't you suppose that a hungry head,
+    Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed?
+    Looking into myself, I find this true,
+    So I hardly can figure it false in you.
+
+    And you don't _read_ poetry very much.
+            (Such
+    Is my own case also.) "But," you cry,
+    "I haven't the time." Beloved, you lie.
+    When a scandal happens in Buffalo,
+    You ponder the details, con and pro;
+    If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell
+    Which of the poets licked John L.?
+    If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled
+    As to which of the poets married a Gould?
+    And even _my_ books might have some hope
+    If poetry books were books of dope.
+
+    "You're a little bit swift," you say to me,
+            "See!"
+    You open your library. There you show
+    Your "favorite poets," row on row,
+    Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe,
+    A Homer unread, an uncut Horace,
+    A wholly forgotten William Morris.
+    My friend, my friend, can it be you thought
+    That these were poets whom you had bought?
+    These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies
+    To display your style, like clothing dummies.
+    But when do they talk to you? Some one said
+    That these were poets which should be read,
+    So here they stand. But tell me, pray,
+    How many poets who live to-day
+    Have you, of your own volition, sought,
+    Discovered and tested, proved and _bought_,
+    With a grateful glow that the dollar you spent
+    Netted the poet his ten per cent.?
+
+    "But hold on," you say, "I am reading _you_."
+            True,
+    And pitying, too, the sorry end
+    Of the dog I tried this on. My friend,
+    I _can_ write poetry--good enough
+    So you wouldn't look at the worthy stuff.
+    But knowing what you prefer to read
+    I'm setting the pace at about your speed,
+    Being rather convinced these truths will hold you
+    A little bit better than if I'd told you
+    A genuine poem and forgotten to scold you.
+    Besides, when I open my little room
+    And see _my_ poets, each in his tomb,
+    With his mouth dust-stopped, I turn from the shelf
+    And I must scold you, or scold myself.
+
+
+
+
+IN NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NOW.
+
+
+    Thomas Moore, at the present date,
+    Is chiefly known as "a ten-cent straight."
+    Walter, the Scot, is forgiven his rimes
+    Because of his tales of stirring times.
+    William Morris's fame will wear
+    As a practical man who made a chair.
+    And even Shakespere's memory's green
+    Less because he's read than because he's seen.
+    Then why should a poet make his bow
+    In the year of nineteen hundred and now?
+
+
+    Homer himself, if he could but speak,
+    Would admit that most of his stuff is Greek.
+    Chaucer would no doubt own his tongue
+    Was the broken speech of the land when young.
+    Shelley's a sealed-up book, and Byron
+    Is chiefly recalled as a masculine siren.
+    Poe has a perch on the chamber door,
+    But the populace read him "Nevermore."
+    Spenser fitted his day, as all allow,
+    But this is nineteen hundred and now.
+
+
+    Tennyson's chiefly given away
+    To callow girls on commencement day.
+    Alfred Austin, entirely solemn,
+    Is quoted most in the funny column.
+    Riley's Hoosiers have made their pile
+    And moved to the city to live in style.
+    Kipling's compared to "The Man Who Was,"
+    And the rest of us write with little cause,
+    Till publishers shy at talk of per cents.,
+    But offer to print "at author's expense."
+
+    O, once the "celestial fire" burned bright,
+    But the world now calls for electric light!
+    And Pegasus, too, is run by meter,
+    Being trolleyized to make him fleeter.
+    So I throw the stylus away and set
+    Myself at the typewriter alphabet
+    To spell some message I find within
+    Which shall also scratch your rawhide skin,
+    For you must read it, if I learn how
+    To write for nineteen hundred and now.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+DON'T YOU?
+
+
+    When the plan which I have, to grow suddenly rich
+    Grows weary of leg and drops into the ditch,
+    And scheme follows scheme
+    Like the web of a dream
+    To glamor and glimmer and shimmer and seem,...
+                  Only seem;
+    And then, when the world looks unfadably blue,
+      If my rival sails by
+      With his head in the sky,
+    And sings "How is business?" why, what do I do?
+    Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true,
+    But I sometimes lie. Don't you?
+
+    When something at home is decidedly wrong,
+    When somebody sings a false note in the song,
+    Too low or too high,
+    And, you hardly know why,
+    But it wrangles and jangles and runs all awry,...
+                  Aye, awry!
+    And then, at the moment when things are askew,
+      Some cousin sails in
+      With a face all a-grin,
+    And a "Do I intrude? Oh, I see that I do!"
+    Well, then, though I aim to be honest and true,
+    Still I sometimes lie. Don't you?
+
+    When a man whom I need has some foible or fad,
+    Not very commendable, not very bad;
+    Perhaps it's his daughter,
+    And some one has taught her
+    To daub up an "oil" or to streak up a "water";
+                  What a "water"!
+    And her grass is green green and her sky is blue blue,
+      But her father, with pride,
+      In a stagey aside
+    Asks my "candid opinion." Then what do I do?
+    Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true,
+    But I sometimes lie. Don't you?
+
+
+
+
+YOU TOO.
+
+
+    Did you ever make some small success
+      And brag your little brag,
+    As if your breathing would impress
+      The world and fix your tag
+    Upon it, so that all might see
+    The label loudly reading, "ME!"
+    And when you thought you'd gained the height
+    And, sunning in your own delight,
+    You preened your plumes and crowed "All right!"
+    Did something wipe you out of sight?
+    Unless you did this many a time
+    You needn't stop to read this rime.
+
+    When I was mamma's little joy
+      And not the least bit tough,
+    I'd sometimes whop some other boy
+      (If he were small enough),
+    And for a week I'd wear a chip,
+    And at the uplift of a lip
+    I'd lord it like a pigmy pope,
+    Until, when I had run my rope,
+    Some bullet-headed little Swope
+    Would clean me out as slick as soap.
+    No doubt you were as bad, or worse,
+    Or else you had not read this verse.
+
+[Illustration: "Me!"
+
+_Page 18._]
+
+    All women were like pica print
+      When I was young and wise;
+    I'd read their very souls by dint
+      Of looking in their eyes.
+    And in those limpid souls I'd see
+    A very fierce regard for me.
+    And then--my, my, it makes me faint!--
+    Peroxide and a pinkish paint
+    Gave me the hard, hard heart complaint,
+    I saw the sham, I felt the taint,
+    Yet if she'd pat me once or twice,
+    I'd follow like a little fyce.
+
+    I never played a little game
+      And won a five or ten,
+    But, presto! I was not the same
+      As common makes of men.
+    Not Solomon and all his kind
+    Held half the wisdom of my mind.
+    And so I'd swell to twice my size,
+    And throw my hat across my eyes,
+    And chew a quill, and wear red ties,
+    And tip you off the stock to rise--
+    Until, at last, I'd have to steal
+    The baby's bank to buy a meal.
+
+    I speak as if these things remained
+    All in the perfect tense,
+    And yet I don't suppose I've gained
+      A single ounce of sense.
+    I scoff these tales of yesterday
+    In quite a supercilious way,
+    But by to-morrow I may bump
+    Into some newer game and jump!
+    You'll think I am the only trump
+    In all the deck until--kerslump!
+    Unless you'll do the same some time,
+    Of course you haven't read this rime.
+
+[Illustration: The Eternal Everyday
+
+_Page 21._]
+
+
+
+
+THE ETERNAL EVERYDAY.
+
+
+    O, one might be like Socrates
+      And lift the hemlock up,
+    Pledge death with philosophic ease,
+      And drain the untrembling cup;--
+    But to be barefoot and be great,
+    Most in desert and least in state,
+    Servant of truth and lord of fate!
+    I own I falter at the peak
+    Trod daily by the steadfast Greek.
+
+    O, one might nerve himself to climb
+      His cross and cruelly die,
+    Forgiving his betrayer's crime,
+      With pity in his eye;--
+    But day by day and week by week
+    To feel his power and yet be meek,
+    Endure the curse and turn the cheek,
+    I scarce dare trust even you to be
+    As was the Jew of Galilee.
+
+    O, one might reach heroic heights
+      By one strong burst of power.
+    He might endure the whitest lights
+      Of heaven for an hour;--
+    But harder is the daily drag,
+    To smile at trials which fret and fag,
+    And not to murmur--nor to lag.
+    The test of greatness is the way
+    One meets the eternal Everyday.
+
+
+
+
+DON'T TAKE YOUR TROUBLES TO BED.
+
+
+    You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you will;
+      You may worry a bit, if you must;
+    You may treat your affairs as a series of cares,
+      You may live on a scrap and a crust;
+    But when the day's done, put it out of your head;
+    Don't take your troubles to bed.
+
+    You may batter your way through the thick of the fray,
+      You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt;
+    You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this rule
+      Should ever be kept at the front:--
+    Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head
+    And kick every worriment out of the bed.
+
+    That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't know),
+      Whose name we have spoken as Death,
+    Hovers close to your side, while you run or you ride,
+      And he envies the warmth of your breath;
+    But he turns him away, with a shake of his head,
+    When he finds that you don't take your troubles to bed.
+
+
+
+
+FAILURE.
+
+
+    What is a failure? It's only a spur
+      To a man who receives it right,
+    And it makes the spirit within him stir
+      To go in once more and fight.
+    If you never have failed, it's an even guess
+    You never have won a high success.
+
+    What is a miss? It's a practice shot
+      Which a man must make to enter
+    The list of those who can hit the spot
+      Of the bull's-eye in the centre.
+    If you never have sent your bullet wide,
+    You never have put a mark inside.
+
+    What is a knock-down? A count of ten
+      Which a man may take for a rest.
+    It will give him a chance to come up again
+      And do his particular best.
+    If you never have more than met your match,
+    I guess you never have toed the scratch.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+GOOD.
+
+
+    You look at yourself in the glass and say:
+    "Really, I'm rather _distingué_.
+    To be sure my eyes
+    Are assorted in size,
+    And my mouth is a crack
+    Running too far back,
+    And I hardly suppose
+    An unclassified nose
+    Is a mark of beauty, as beauty goes;
+    But still there's something about the whole
+    Suggesting a beauty of--well, say soul."
+    And this is the reason that photograph-galleries
+    Are able to pay employees' salaries.
+    Now, this little mark of our brotherhood,
+    By which each thinks that his looks are good,
+    Is laudable quite in you and me,
+    Provided we not only look, but be.
+
+    I look at my poem and you hear me say:
+    "Really, it's clever in its way.
+    The theme is old
+    And the style is cold.
+    These words run rude;
+    That line is crude;
+    And here is a rhyme
+    Which fails to chime,
+    And the metre dances out of time.
+
+[Illustration: Look at Yourself
+
+_Page 24._]
+
+    Oh, it isn't so bright it'll blind the sun,
+    But it's better than that by Such-a-one."
+    And this is the reason I and my creditors
+    Curse the "unreasoning whims" of editors,
+    And yet, if one writes for a livelihood,
+    He ought to believe that his work is good,
+    Provided the form that his vanity takes
+    Not only believes, but also makes.
+
+    And there is our neighbor. We've heard him say:
+    "Really, I'm not the commonest clay.
+    Brown got his dust
+    By betraying a trust;
+    And Jones's wife
+    Leads a terrible life;
+    While I _have_ heard
+    That Robinson's word
+    Isn't quite so good as Gas preferred.
+    And Smith has a soul with seamy cracks,
+    For he talks of people behind their backs!"
+    And these are the reasons the penitentiary
+    Holds open house for another century.
+    True, we want no man in our neighborhood
+    Who doesn't consider his character good,
+    But then it ought to be also true
+    He not only knows to consider, but do.
+
+
+
+
+LET'S BE GLAD WE'RE LIVING.
+
+
+    I.
+
+    Oh, let's be glad that we're living yet; you bet!
+    The sun runs round and the rain is wet
+      And the bird flip-flops its wing;
+    Tennis and toil bring an equal sweat;
+    It's so much trouble to frown and fret,
+      So easy to laugh and sing,
+                      Ting ling!
+      So easy to laugh and sing!
+        (And yet, sometimes, when I sing my song,
+        I'm almost afraid my method is wrong.)
+
+
+    II.
+
+    Many have money which I have not, God wot!
+    But victual and keep are all they've got,
+      And the stars still dot the sky.
+    Heaven be praised that they shine so bright,
+    Heaven be praised for an appetite,
+      So who is richer than I?
+                      Hi yi!
+      Say, who is richer than I?
+        (And yet I'm hoping to sell this screed
+        For several dollars I hardly need.)
+
+
+    III.
+
+    Ducats and dividends, stocks and shares, who cares?
+    Worry and property travel in pairs,
+      While the green grows on the tree.
+    A banquet's nothing more than a meal;
+    A trolley's much like an automobile,
+      With a transfer sometimes free,
+                      Tra lee!
+      With a transfer sometimes free!
+        (And yet you're unwilling, I plainly see,
+        To leave the automobile to me.)
+
+
+    IV.
+
+    A note you give and a note you get; don't fret,
+    For they both may go to protest yet,
+      And the roses blow perfume.
+    Fortune is only a Dun report;
+    The Homestead Law and the Bankrupt Court
+      Have fostered many a boom,
+                      Boom, boom!
+      Have fostered many a boom.
+        (But I see you smile in a rapturous way
+        On the man who is rated double A.)
+
+
+    V.
+
+    Life is a show for you and me; it's free!
+    And what you look for is what you see;
+      A hill is a humped-up hollow.
+    Riches are yours with a dollar bill;
+    A million's the same little digit still,
+      With nothing but naughts to follow,
+                      So hollo!
+      There's nothing but naughts to follow.
+        (But you and I, as I've said before,
+        Could get along with a trifle more.)
+
+
+
+
+SUCCESS.
+
+
+    It's little the difference where you arrive;
+    The serious question is how you strive.
+    Are you up to your eyes in a wild romance?
+    Does your lady lead you a dallying dance?
+    Do you question if love be fate, or chance?
+    Oh, the world will ask: "Did he get the girl?"
+    Though gentleman, coxcomb, clown or churl,
+    Master or menial of passion's whirl.
+    But it _isn't_ that. The world will run
+    Though you never bequeath it daughter or son,
+    But what, O lover, will come to you
+    If you be not chivalrous, honest, true?
+    As far ahead as a man may think,
+    You can see your little soul shrivel and shrink.
+                It's not, "Do you win?"
+                It is, "What have you been?"
+
+    Are you stripped for the world-old, world-wide race
+    For the metal which shines like the sun's own face
+    Till it dazzles us blind to the mean and base?
+    Do you say to yourself, "When I have my hoard,
+    I will give of the plenty which I have stored,
+    If the Lord bless me, I will bless the Lord"?
+    And do you forget, as you pile your pelf,
+    What is the gift you are giving yourself?
+    Though your mountain of gold may dazzle the day,
+    Can you climb its height with your feet of clay?
+    Oh, it isn't the stamp on the metal you win;
+    It's the stamp on the metal you coin within.
+                It's not what you give;
+                It is "What do you live?"
+
+    Are you going to sail the polar seas
+    To the point of ninety-and-north degrees,
+    Where the very words in your larynx freeze?
+    Well, the mob may ask "Did he reach the pole?
+    Though fair, or foul, did he touch the goal?"
+    But if that be the spirit which stirs your soul,
+    Off, off from the land below the zeroes;
+    For you are not of the stuff of heroes.
+    Ho! many a man can lead men forth
+    To the fearsome end of the Farthest North,
+    But can you be faithful for woe or weal
+    In a land where nothing but self is leal?
+                Oh, it isn't "How far?"
+                It is what you are.
+    And it isn't your lookout where you arrive,
+    But it's up to you as to how you strive.
+
+
+
+
+THE GRILL.
+
+
+    Why do you?
+    What's it to you?
+    I know you do, for I've seen the gruesome feeling simmer through you.
+    I've seen it rise behind your eyes
+    And take your features by surprise.
+    I've seen it in your half-hid grin
+    And the tilting-upness of your chin.
+    Good-natured though you are and fair, as you have often boasted,
+    Still you like to hear the other man artistically roasted.
+
+    Whenever the star secures the stage with the spotlight in the centre,
+    Why should the anvil chorus think it has the cue to enter?
+    Whenever the prima donna trills the E above the clef,
+    Why should the brasses orchestrate the bass in double f?
+
+    It's funny,
+    But it's even money,
+    You like to spy the buzzing fly in the other fellow's honey.
+    Though you have said that honest bread
+    Demands no honey on it spread,
+
+[Illustration: Why do You?
+
+_Page 30._]
+
+    And if we eat the crusty wheat
+    With appetite, it needs no sweet,
+    Still I have noticed you were not at all inclined to cry
+    Because the man the bees had blest was bothered with the fly.
+
+    Whenever the chef concocts a dish which sets the world to tasting,
+    Why does the cooking-school get out its recipes for basting?
+    Whenever a sprinter beats the bunch from the pistol-shot, why is it
+    The heavy hammer throwers get together for a visit?
+
+    Excuse me!
+    Did you accuse me
+    Of turning the spit a little bit myself? Why, you amuse me!
+    Didn't I scratch the sulphurous match
+    And blow the flame to make it catch?
+    Didn't you trot to get the pot
+    To heat the water good and hot?
+    Then, seizing on our victim, if we found no greater sin,
+    Didn't we call him "a lobster," and cheerfully chuck him in?
+
+
+
+
+THE VISION.
+
+
+    At the door of Success, I've been tempted to knock
+      Both the door and the man who went through it,
+    But I find that the fellow was greasing the lock
+      All the time that he strove to undo it,
+    So I either stay out, or must look for the key
+      Which slipped back the bolt which impeded,
+    And I'm certain to find it, as soon as I see
+      The reason my rival succeeded.
+
+    Yes, I own when the man is a rank also-ran
+      That I feel quite pish-tushy and pooh-y,
+    And exclaim if he ever knew saw-dust from bran,
+      Well--I come from just west of St. Louis!
+    But then, in the winning he's made, there's a hope
+      That I may do even as he did,
+    So I swallow my sneer and I study his dope
+      To discover just why he succeeded.
+
+    I've been up in the air, I've been down in the hole,
+      (But always, let's hope, on the level,)
+    And I've been on my uppers--so meagre my sole
+      'Twould scarcely have tempted the devil!
+    But it's nothing to you what I am, or I was,
+      And no whit of your sympathy's needed,
+    For I'm certain to win in the long run, because
+      I shall see how my rival succeeded.
+
+
+
+
+BLOOD IS RED.
+
+
+    Some of us don't drink, some of us do;
+    Some of us use a word or two.
+    Most of us, maybe, are half-way ripe
+    For deeds that would't look well in type.
+    All of us have done things, no doubt,
+    We don't very often brag about.
+    We are timidly good, we are badly bold,
+    But there's hope for the worst of us, I hold,
+    If there be a few things we didn't do,
+    For the reason that we so wanted to.
+
+    Some of us sin on a smaller scale.
+    (We don't mind minnows, we shy at a whale.)
+    We speak of a woman with half a sneer,
+    We sit on our hands when we ought to cheer.
+    The salad we mix in the bowl of the heart
+    We sometimes make a little too tart
+    For home consumption. We growl, we nag,
+    But we're not quite lost if we sometimes drag
+    The hot words back and make them mild
+    At the moment they fret to be running wild.
+
+    Don't pin your faith on the man or woman
+    Who never is tempted. We're mostly human.
+    And whoever he be who never has felt
+    The red blood sing in the veins and melt
+    The ice of convention, caste and creed,
+    To the very last barrier, has no need
+    To raise his brows at the rest of us.
+    It bides its time in the best of us,
+    And well for him if he do not do
+    That which the strength of him wants him to.
+
+
+
+
+DIAGNOSIS.
+
+
+    You have a grudge against the man
+      Who did the thing you couldn't do.
+    You hatched the scheme, you laid the plan,
+      And yet you couldn't push it through.
+    You strained your soul and couldn't win;
+      He gave a breath and it was easy.
+    You smile and swallow your chagrin,
+      But, oh, the swallow makes you queasy.
+
+    I know your illness, for, you see,
+    The diet never pleases me.
+
+    Your dearest friend has made a strike,
+      Has placed his mark above the crowd,
+    Has won the thing which _you_ would like
+      And you are glad for him, and proud.
+    Your tongue is swift, your cheek is red,
+      If some one speak to his detraction,
+    And yet, the fact the thing is said
+    Affords you half a satisfaction.
+
+    I see the workings of your mind
+    Because my own is so inclined.
+
+    You tell me fame is hollow squeak,
+      You say that wealth is carking care;
+    And to live care-free a single week
+      Is more than years of work and wear.
+    Alexander weeps his highest place,
+      Diogenes is happy sunning!
+    What matters it who wins the race
+      So you have had the joy of running?
+
+    And yet, you covet prize and pelf.
+    I know it, for I do, myself.
+
+
+
+
+SPREAD OUT.
+
+
+    In politics I'm a--never mind,
+      And you are a--I don't care,
+    But, anyway, I am rather inclined
+      To suspect we are both unfair;
+    For I have called you a coward and slave
+    And you have dubbed me a fool and knave.
+
+    (Yet, perhaps I was right, for you surely abused
+    The right of free speech in the names you used!)
+
+    In business you figure--a profit, I guess,
+      And I charge you--as much as I dare,
+    And I grumble that you ought to do it for less,
+      And you ask if my price is fair.
+    But if _I_ sold your goods and _you_ sold mine,
+    I doubt if the prices would much decline.
+
+    (Though I must insist that I think I see
+    Where you'd still have a little advantage of me!)
+
+    In religion you are a--who cares what?
+      And I am a--what's the odds?
+    So why have I sneered at your holiest thought,
+      And why have you jeered at my gods?
+    For, thinking it over, I'm sure we two
+    Were doing the best that we honestly knew.
+
+    (Though, of course, I cannot escape a touch
+    Of suspicion that _you_ never knew too much!)
+
+
+
+
+THE DILETTANT.
+
+
+    To lie outright in the light of day
+      I'm not sufficiently skilful,
+    But I practice a bit, in an amateur way,
+      The lie which is hardly wilful;
+    The society lie and the business lie
+    And the lie I have had to double,
+    And the lie that I lie when I don't know why
+      And the truth is too much trouble.
+
+    For this I am willing to take your blame
+    Unless you have sometimes done the same.
+
+    To be a fool of an A1 brand
+      I'm not sufficiently clever,
+    But I often have tried my 'prentice hand
+      In a callow and crude endeavor;
+    A fool with the money for which I've toiled,
+      A fool with the word I've spoken,
+    And the foolish fool who is fooled and foiled
+      On a maiden's finger broken.
+
+    If you never yourself have made a slip,
+    I'm willing to watch you curl your lip.
+
+    And yet my blood and my bone resist
+      If you dub me fool and liar.
+    I set my teeth and double my fist
+      And my brow is flushed with fire.
+
+    You I deny and you I defy
+      And I vow I will make you rue it;
+    And I lie when I say that I never lie,
+      Which proves me a fool to do it!
+
+    You may jerk your thumb at me and grin
+    If liar and fool you never have been.
+
+
+
+
+THE CONSERVATIVE.
+
+
+    At twenty, as you proudly stood
+    And read your thesis, "Brotherhood,"
+    If I remember right, you saw
+    The fatuous faults of social law.
+
+    At twenty-five you braved the storm
+    And dug the trenches of Reform,
+    Stung by some gadfly in your breast
+    Which would not let your spirit rest.
+
+    At thirty-five you made a pause
+    To sum the columns of The Cause;
+    You noted, with unwilling eye,
+    The heedless world had passed you by.
+
+    At forty you had always known
+    Man owes a duty to His Own.
+    Man's life is as man's life is made;
+    The game is fair, if fairly played.
+
+    At fifty, after years of stress
+    You bore the banner of Success.
+    All men have virtues, all have sins,
+    And God is with the man who wins.
+
+    At sixty, from your captured heights
+    You fly the flag of Vested Rights,
+    Bounded by bonds collectable,
+    And hopelessly respectable!
+
+
+
+
+HUSH.
+
+
+    What's the best thing that you ever have done?
+    The whitest day,
+    The cleverest play
+    That ever you set in the shine of the sun?
+    The time that you felt just a wee bit proud
+    Of defying the cry of the cowardly crowd
+    And stood back to back with God?
+    Aye, I notice you nod,
+    But silence yourself, lest you bring me shame
+    That I have no answering deed to name.
+
+    What's the worst thing that ever you did?
+    The darkest spot,
+    The blackest blot
+    On the page you have pasted together and hid?
+    Ah, sometimes you think you've forgotten it quite,
+    Till it crawls in your bed in the dead of the night
+    And brands you its own with a blush.
+    What was it? Nay, hush!
+    Don't tell it to me, for fear it be known
+    That I have an answering blush of my own.
+
+    But whenever you notice a clean hit made,
+    Sing high and clear
+    The sounding cheer
+    You would gladly have heard for the play you played,
+    And when a man walks in the way forbidden,
+    Think you of the thing you have happily hidden
+    And spare him the sting of your tongue.
+    Do I do that which I've sung?
+    Well, it may be I don't and it may be I do,
+    But I'm telling the thing which is good for _you_!
+
+
+
+
+THE ISLAND.
+
+
+    You, my friend, in your long-tailed coat,
+    With your white cravat at your withered throat,
+    Praying by proxy of him you hire,
+    Worshiping God with a quartet choir,
+    Bumping your head on the pew in front,
+    Assenting "Amen!" with an unctuous grunt,
+    Are you sure it is you
+    In the pew?
+
+    Look!
+        You're away on a lonely isle,
+    Where the scant breech-clout is the only style,
+    Where the day of the week forgets its name,
+    Where god and devil are all the same.
+    Look at yourself in your careless clout,
+    And tell me, then, would you be devout?
+
+    One on the island, one in the pew--
+    How do you know which is you?
+
+    You, dear maiden, with eyes askance
+    At the little soubrette and her daring dance,
+    Thanking God that His ways are wide
+    To allow you to pass on the other side,
+    You, as you ask, "Will the world approve?"
+    At the hint of a wabble out of the groove,
+
+    Look!
+        On that isle of the lonely sea
+    Are you, the saucy soubrette and _he_.
+    And the little grooves that you circle in
+    Are forever as though they never had been.
+    Now you are naked of soul and limb:
+    Will you say what you will not dare--for him?
+
+    Which of the women is real?
+    The one you appear, or the one you feel?
+
+    You, good sir, with your neck a-stretch,
+    As the van goes by with the prison wretch,
+    Asking naught of his ills or hurts,
+    Judging "he's getting his just deserts,"
+    Pluming yourself that the moral laws
+    Are centred in you as effect and cause.
+
+    Look!
+        At the island, and there you are
+    With the long, strong arm which reaches far,
+    And there are the natives who kneel and bow,
+    And where are your _meum et tuum_ now?
+    Are you sure that the balance swings quite true?
+    Or does it a little incline to you?
+
+    Answer or not as you will, but oh,
+    I have an island, too, and so
+    I know, I know.
+
+
+
+
+HUMBLER HEROES.
+
+
+    It might not be so difficult to lead the light brigade,
+    While the army cheered behind you, and the fifes and bugles played;
+    It might be rather easy, with the war-shriek in your ears,
+    To forget the bite of bullets and the taste of blood and tears.
+      But to be a scrubwoman, with four
+          Babies, or more,
+      Every day, every day setting your back
+          On the rack,
+      And all your reward forever not quite
+          A full bite
+      Of bread for your babies. Say!
+          In the heat of the day
+    You might be a hero to head a brigade,
+    But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!
+
+    It might be very feasible to force a great reform,
+    To saddle public passion and to ride upon the storm;
+    It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath,
+    Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path.
+      But he who, alone and unknown, is true
+          To his view,
+      Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed,
+          Blatting crowd,
+      Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking ease
+          Which he sees
+      Throned and anointed. Say!
+          At the height of the fray,
+    You might be the chosen to captain the throng:
+    But to stand all alone? How long? How long?
+
+
+
+
+CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO.
+
+
+    You are honest as daylight. You're often assured
+    That your word is as good as your note--unsecured.
+    We could trust you with millions unaudited, but----
+            (Tut, tut!
+            There is always a "but,"
+    So don't get excited,) I'm pained to perceive
+    It is seldom I notice you grumble or grieve
+    When the custom-house officer pockets your tip
+    And passes the contraband goods in your grip.
+    You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I'm certain,
+    But skinning your Uncle you're rather expert in.
+
+    Well, I'm proud that no taint of the sort touches me.
+    (For I've never been over the water, you see.)
+
+    Your yardstick's a yard and your goods are all wool;
+    Your bushel's four pecks and you measure it full.
+    You are proud of your business integrity, yet--
+            (Don't fret!
+            There is always a "yet,")
+    I never have noticed a sign of distress, or
+    Disturbance in you, when the upright assessor
+    Has listed your property somewhere about
+    Half what you would take were you selling it out.
+    You're as true to the world as the world to its axis,
+    But you chuckle to swear off your personal taxes.
+    As for me, I would scorn to do any such thing,
+    (Though I may have considered the question last spring.)
+
+    You have notions of right. You would count it a sin
+    To cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin.
+    You have a contempt for a pettiness, still--
+            (Don't chill!
+            There is always a "still,")
+    I never have noticed you storm with neglect
+    Because the conductor had failed to collect,
+    Or growl that the game wasn't run on the square
+    When your boy in the high school paid only half fare.
+    The voice of your conscience is lusty and audible,
+    But a railroad--good heavens! why, that's only laudable.
+
+    Of course, _I_ am quite in a different class;
+    For me, it is painful to ride on a pass!
+
+
+
+
+THE WORLD RUNS ON.
+
+
+    So many good people find fault with God,
+      Tho' admitting He's doing the best He can,
+    But still they consider it somewhat odd
+      That He doesn't consult them concerning his plan,
+    But the sun sinks down and the sun climbs back,
+    And the world runs round and round its track.
+
+    Or they say God doesn't precisely steer
+      This world in the way they think is best,
+    And if He would listen to them, He'd veer
+      A hair to the sou', sou'west by west.
+    But the world sails on and it never turns back
+    And the Mariner never makes a tack.
+
+    Or the same folk pray "O, if Thou please,
+      Dear God, be a little more circumspect;
+    Thou knowest Thy worm who is on his knees
+      Would not willingly charge thee with neglect,
+    But O, if indeed Thou knowest all things,
+    Why fittest Thou not Thy worm with wings?"
+
+    So many good people are quite inclined
+      To favor God with their best advices,
+    And consider they're something more than kind
+      In helping Him out of critical crises.
+    But the world runs on, as it ran before,
+    And eternally shall run evermore.
+
+    So many good people, like you and me,
+      Are deeply concerned for the sins of others
+    And conceive it their duty that God should be
+      Apprised of the lack in erring brothers.
+    And the myriad sun-stars seed the skies
+    And look at us out of their calm, clear eyes.
+
+
+
+
+PASS.
+
+
+    Did somebody give you a pat on the back?
+          Pass it on!
+    Let somebody else have a taste of the snack,
+                Pass it on!
+    If it heightens your courage, or lightens your pack,
+    If it kisses your soul, with a song in the smack,
+    Maybe somebody else has been dressing in black;
+                      Pass it on!
+    God gives you a smile, not to make it a yawn;
+                            Pass it on!
+
+    Did somebody show you a slanderous mess?
+          Pass it by!
+    When a brook's flowing by, will you drink at the cess?
+                Pass it by!
+    Dame Gossip's a wanton, whatever her dress;
+    Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess,
+    And a poison is in her polluting caress;
+                      Pass it by!
+    Unless you're a porker, keep out of the sty.
+                            Pass it by!
+
+    Did somebody give you an insolent word?
+          Pass it up!
+    'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a bird;
+                Pass it up!
+    Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty blurred?
+    Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity slurred?
+    But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred!
+                      Pass it up!
+    Does the puddle invite you to dip in your cup?
+                            Pass it up!
+
+
+
+
+PUBLICITY.
+
+
+    There's nothing like publicity
+    To further that lubricity
+    Which minted cartwheels need
+    To maximize their speed
+    In your direction.
+    True, some hydropathist of stocks,
+    Or one whose trade is picking locks,
+      May make objection:
+    Yet even those gentry always lurk
+    Where booming first has done its work.
+
+    Observe how oft some foreigner,
+    About the size of coroner,
+    Can sell L O R D
+    (Four letters, as you see,)
+      For seven numbers,
+    Because his trade-mark, thus devised,
+    Is advertised and advertised
+      Till it encumbers
+    The mental view, as though 't were some
+    Bald-headed brand of chewing-gum.
+
+    Study your own psychology!
+    See how some mere tautology
+    Of picture, or of print,
+    Has realized the glint
+      Of your good money.
+    How often have persistent views
+    Of one bare head sold you your shoes!
+      Which does seem funny;
+    And yet 'twas head-work, after all,
+    Which helped the shoe-man make his haul.
+
+    There's some obscure locality
+    In every man's mentality
+    Which, I am free to state,
+    I'd like to penetrate
+      For my felicity.
+    For now who gives a second look
+    When he perceives a POEM by Cooke?
+      But come publicity!
+    And then a poem by COOKE were seen
+    The first thing in the magazine!
+
+[Illustration: _Page 55._]
+
+
+
+
+MOVE!
+
+
+    We are on the main line of a crowded track;
+    We've got to go forward; we can't go back
+      And run the risk of colliding:
+    We must make schedule, not now and again,
+    But always, forever and ever, amen!
+      Or else switch off on a siding.
+    If ever we loaf, like a car in the yard,
+    Doesn't somebody bump us, and bump us hard,
+              I wonder?
+
+    You've succeeded in building a pretty fair trade,
+    But can you sit down in the grateful shade
+      And kill time cutting up capers?
+    Or must you hustle and scheme and sweat,
+    Though the shine be fine or the weather be wet,
+      And keep your page in the papers?
+    If ever you fail to be pulling the strings,
+    Aren't some of your rivals around doing things,
+              I wonder?
+
+    You're a first-class salesman. You know your line;
+    Your house is good and your goods are fine,
+      So you fill your book with orders,
+    But can you get quit of the ball and chain,
+    Or are you in jail on a railroad train,
+      With blue-coated men for warders?
+    If you sent your samples and cut out the trip,
+    Wouldn't somebody else soon be lugging your grip,
+              I wonder?
+
+    You are starred on the bills and are chummy with fame;
+    The man on the corner could tell you your name
+      At three o'clock in the morning,
+    But can you depend on the mind of the mob?
+    Can you tell your press-agent to look for a job,
+      Or give your manager warning?
+    Should you lie down to sleep, with your laurels beneath,
+    Wouldn't somebody else soon be wearing your wreath,
+              I wonder?
+
+    Oh, I'm willing to work, but I wish I could lag,
+    Not feeling as if I were "it" for tag,
+      Or last in follow-my-leader;
+    There is only one spot where, I haven't a doubt,
+    Nobody will try to be crowding me out,
+      And that is under the cedar.
+    And even in that place, will Gabriel's trump
+    Come nagging along and be making me jump?
+              I wonder.
+
+
+
+
+GET NEXT.
+
+
+    Chap. I., verse 1, is where you'll find
+    The text of what is in my mind
+    If, haply, you are so inclined.
+    Chap. I., verse 1--the primal rule
+    For saint or sinner, sage or fool,
+    No matter what his church or school.
+    Though you may call it slangy solely,
+    Though you may term it flippant wholly,
+    Truth still is truth and is not vexed;
+    I write this rhyme to prove the text--
+            Get Next.
+
+    Suppose I sought some lonely height
+    And dipped a stylus in the light
+    Of welding worlds and sought to write
+    Upon the highest, deepest blue
+    My message to Sam Smith and you.
+    The chances are it would not do.
+    You would not risk your neck to read
+    My much too altitudinous screed,
+    And I, chagrined and half-perplexed,
+    Had missed you when I missed my text--
+            Get Next.
+
+    Suppose you have a breakfast food
+    Which you conceive I should include
+    Within my lat-and-longitude.
+    'T is not enough to have the stuff,
+    But you must post, and praise, and puff,
+    Until I memo. on my cuff,
+    Among my most important notes--
+    Be sure to bring home Oatless Oats.
+    And then you know that I'm annexed,
+    Because you followed out the text--
+            Get Next.
+
+    Get next! get next! and hold it true
+    There's one you must get nextest to,
+    And that important one is you.
+    Be not of those who, uncommuned
+    With their own skins, have all but swooned
+    From some imaginary wound,
+    But strip the rags from off your soul
+    And find you are not maimed, but whole!
+    'T is but a flea-bite which has vexed
+    As soon as you've applied the text--
+            Get Next.
+
+[Illustration: "Post, and praise, and puff"
+
+_Page 58._]
+
+[Illustration: Are You You?
+
+_Page 59._]
+
+
+
+
+ARE YOU YOU?
+
+
+    Are you a trailer, or are you a trolley?
+    Are you tagged to a leader through wisdom and folly?
+      Are you Somebody Else, or You?
+    Do you vote by the symbol and swallow it "straight"?
+    Do you pray by the book, do you pay by the rate?
+    Do you tie your cravat by the calendar's date?
+      Do you follow a cue?
+
+    Are you a writer, or that which is worded?
+    Are you a shepherd, or one of the herded?
+      Which are you--a What or a Who?
+    It sounds well to call yourself "one of the flock,"
+    But a sheep is a sheep after all. At the block
+    You're nothing but mutton, or possibly stock.
+      Would you flavor a stew?
+
+    Are you a being and boss of your soul?
+    Or are you a mummy to carry a scroll?
+      Are you Somebody Else, or You?
+    When you finally pass to the heavenly wicket
+    Where Peter the Scrutinous stands on his picket,
+    Are you going to give him _a blank_ for a ticket?
+      Do you think it will do?
+
+
+
+
+THE PRICE.
+
+
+    In, or under, or over the earth,
+      What will fill you, and what suffice?
+    No matter how mean, or much its worth,
+      It is yours if you pay the price.
+    Never a thing may a man attain,
+    But gain pays loss, or loss pays gain.
+
+    Lady of riches, riot and rout,
+      Fair of flesh and sated of sense,
+    Nothing in life you need do without
+      Except the trifle of innocence.
+    Counterfeit kisses you paid, and got
+    Just what you paid for--which is what?
+
+    Man of adroitness, place and power,
+      Trampled above and torn below;
+    Set in the light of your noonday hour,
+      Playing a part in the public show;
+    Fooling the mob that the mob be ruled:
+    You know which is the greater fooled.
+
+    Artist of pencil, or paint, or pen,
+      Reed, or string, or the vocal note,
+    Making the soul to suffer again
+      And the wild heart clutch the throat;
+    Ever your fancy has paid in fact;
+    You rack my soul, as yours was racked.
+
+[Illustration: "The Trifle of Innocence"
+
+_Page 60._]
+
+
+
+
+THE BUBBLE-FLIES.
+
+
+    Let me read a homily
+    Concerning an anomaly
+      I view
+      In you.
+    Whatever you are striving for,
+    Whatever you are driving for,
+    'T is not alone because you crave
+    To be successful that you slave
+    To swim upon the topmost wave.
+    You care less what your station is,
+    But more what your relation is.
+    To be a bit above the rest!
+    To be upon, or of, the crest!
+    Ah! that is where the trouble lies
+    Which stirs you little bubble-flies.
+
+    (I sneer these sneers, but just the same
+    I keep my fingers in the game.)
+    See! you have eat-and-drinkables
+    And portables and thinkables
+      And yet
+      You fret.
+    For what? Let's reach the heart of you
+    And see the funny part of you.
+    For what? I find the soul and seed
+    Of it is not your lack or need,
+    Or even merely vulgar greed.
+    Gold? You may have a store of it,
+    But someone else has more of it.
+    Fame? Pretty things are said of you,
+    But--some one is ahead of you.
+    Place? You disprize your easy one
+    For some one's high and breezy one.
+
+    (I smile these smiles to soothe my soul,
+    But squint one eye upon the goal.)
+
+    Tell me! what's your capacity
+    Compared to your voracity?
+      _I_ guess
+      'T is less.
+    And so I strike these attitudes
+    And tender you these platitudes;--
+    Not wishing wealth, or spurning it,
+    Not hoarding it, or burning it
+    Is equal to the earning it.
+    Life's race is in the riding it,
+    Not in the word deciding it.
+    And after all is said and uttered
+    The keenest taste is bread-and-buttered.
+
+    (And yet--and yet--my palate aches
+    For pallid pie and pasty cakes!)
+
+[Illustration: The Bubble-Flies
+
+_Page 61._]
+
+
+
+
+QUALIFIED.
+
+
+    I love to see my friend succeed;
+    I love to praise him; yes, indeed!
+        And so, no doubt, do you.
+    But will you tell me why it is
+    The praise we parcel out as his
+        So often goes askew,
+    And ends by running in the rut
+    Of "if," "except" or "but"?
+
+    "Boggs is a clever chap. His trade
+    Is doubling yearly, and he's made
+        A fortune all right, but----"
+    "Sharp is elected. Well, I say!
+    He'll hit a high mark yet, some day,
+        If----" (here one eye is shut).
+    "Such acting! Why, I laughed and wept!
+    Fobb's art is great--except."
+
+    "Miss Hautton has such queenly grace.
+    And then her figure and her face!
+        She'd be a beauty if----"
+    "And Mrs. Follol entertains
+    With so much taste and so much pains;
+        But----" (here a little sniff).
+    "And Mrs. Caste has ever kept
+    The narrow path--except."
+
+    I wish some man were great and good
+    That I might praise him all I could
+        And never add a "but."
+    I would that some would value me
+    And never hint what I would be
+        "If"--but why cavil? Tut!
+    Eternal justice still is kept
+    And Heaven is good--except!
+
+[Illustration: Yesterday's laurels are dry and dead
+
+_Page 65._]
+
+
+
+
+WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
+
+
+    Do you lazily nurse your knee and muse?
+    Do you contemplate your conquering thews
+        With a critical satisfaction?
+    But yesterday's laurels are dry and dead
+    And to-morrow's triumph is still ahead;
+        To-day is the day for action.
+
+    Yesterday's sun: is it shining still?
+    To-morrow's dawn: will its coming fill
+        To-day, if to-day's light fail us?
+    Not so. The past is forever past;
+    To-day's is the hand which holds us fast,
+        And to-morrow may never hail us.
+
+    The present and only the present endures,
+    So it's hey for to-day! for to-day is yours
+        For the goal you are still pursuing.
+    What you have done is a little amount;
+    What you will do is of lesser account,
+        But the test is, what are you doing?
+
+
+
+
+THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR.
+
+
+    McUmphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs.
+    Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues,
+    And his topic--himself--is worth talking about,
+    But he works it so much he has frazzled it out.
+    He never will give me my half of a chance
+    To chip in my own little, clever romance
+    In the first person singular. Yes, and they say,
+    He offended you, too, in a similar way.
+
+    Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent,
+    In a most minute way which is almost indecent!
+    Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter,
+    She serves us her portions--as if on a platter,
+    Never noting how I am but waiting to stir
+    My dregs of diseases to offer to her.
+    And I hear (such a joke!) that your chronic gastritis
+    Stands silent forever before her nephritis.
+
+    Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night,
+    And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright,
+    While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head,
+    And Maggie--well, some things are better unsaid.
+    Such manners to talk of her help--when she knows
+    My wife's simply aching to tell of _our_ woes!
+    And I hear that she never lets you get a start
+    On your story of Rosy we all know by heart.
+
+    You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tell
+    The Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell,
+    The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please--
+    And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese.
+    And he sprang that old yarn of He Said 't was His Leg,
+    When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg,
+    While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale
+    (Which I recently wrote) of The Man in the Whale!
+
+
+
+
+THE CHOICE.
+
+
+    The little it takes to make life bright,
+      If we open our eyes to get it!
+    And the trifle which makes it black as night,
+      If we close our lids and let it!
+    Behold, as the world goes whirling by,
+    It is gloomy, or glad, as it fits your eye.
+
+    As it fits your eye, and I mean by that
+      You find what you look for mostly;
+    You can feed your happiness full and fat,
+      You can make your miseries ghostly,
+    Or you can forget every joy you own
+    By coveting something beyond your zone.
+
+    In the storms of life we can fret the eye
+      Where the guttering mud is drifted,
+    Or we can look to the world-wide sky
+      Where the Artist's scenes are shifted.
+    Puddles are oceans in miniatures,
+    Or merely puddles; the choice is yours.
+
+    We can strip our niggardly souls so bare
+      That we haggle a penny between us;
+    Or we can be rich in a common share
+      Of the Pleiades and Venus.
+    You can lift your soul to its outermost look,
+    Or can keep it packed in a pocketbook.
+
+    We may follow a phantom the arid miles
+      To a mountain of cankered treasure,
+    Or we can find, in a baby's smiles,
+      The pulse of a living pleasure.
+    We may drink of the sea until we burst,
+    While the trickling spring would have quenched our thirst.
+
+
+
+
+THE SAVING CLAUSE.
+
+
+    Kerr wrote a book, and a good book, too;
+    At least I[A] managed to read it through
+    Without finding very much room for blame,
+    And a good many other folks did the same.
+    But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you read?"
+    Or: "How do you like?" I[A] only said:
+    "Very good, very good! and I'm glad enough;
+    For his other writings are horrible stuff."
+
+    Banks wrote a play, and it had a run.
+    (That's a good deal more than ever I've[A] done.)
+    The interest held with hardly a lag
+    From the overture to the final tag.
+    But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you seen?"
+    Or: "What do you think?" I[A] looked serene
+    And remarked: "Oh, a pretty good thing of its kind,
+    But I guess Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind!"
+
+    Phelps made a machine; 't was smooth as grease.
+    (I[A] couldn't invent its smallest piece
+    In a thousand years.) It was tried and tried,
+    Until everybody was satisfied.
+    But when any one asked me[A]: "Will it pay?"--
+    "Is it really good?"--I[A] could only say:
+    "It's a marvelous thing! Why, it almost thinks!
+    And Phelps is a wonder--too bad he drinks!"
+
+[Footnote A: (Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these
+pronouns should all read "You.")]
+
+[Illustration: Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind
+
+_Page 70._]
+
+
+
+
+BETWEEN TWO THIEVES.
+
+
+    Sure! I am one who disbelieves
+    In thieves;
+    At which you interrupt to cry
+    "Aye, aye, and I."
+    Hmf! you're so sudden to agree.
+    Suppose we see.
+
+    I know a thief. No matter whether
+      I ought to know a thief, or not.
+    Perhaps "we went to school together;"
+      That old excuse is worked a lot.
+    One day he "copped a rummy's leather,"
+      Which means--I hate to tell you what.
+    It's such a vulgar thing to steal
+      A drunkard's purse to buy a meal.
+    "Hey, pal," said he, "come help me dine;
+      I've hit a pit and got the swag;
+    To-day, Delmonico's is mine;
+      To-morrow once again a vag.
+    Come on and tell me all the stunts
+    Of all the boys who knew me--once."
+
+    "Did I go with him?"  I did not.
+    Would you have gone? Could you be bought
+    By dinners--when the trail was hot
+    And any hour he might be caught?
+    I know a thief, whose operations
+      Are colored by a kindly law.
+    Your income and a beggar's rations
+      Contribute to his cunning claw;
+    Cities and counties, courts and nations
+      Pay portion to his monstrous maw.
+
+    He gave a dinner not long since
+    In honor of some played-out Prince.
+    The decorations, ah, how chaste!
+      And how delicious was the wine!
+    For Mrs. Thief has perfect taste
+      And Mr. Thief knows how to dine.
+    And so the world has long agreed
+    Quite to forgive, forget--and feed.
+    But really I was shocked to see
+    How many decent folks could be
+    Induced to come and bow the knee;
+    I think you were my _vis-a-vis_.
+
+    Yes, yes, I quite despise him, too,
+    Like you;
+    And (though it's not a thing to brag)
+    I somehow like the vag.
+    But, oh, the difference one perceives
+    Between two thieves!
+
+
+
+
+THE SPECTATOR.
+
+
+    Look at the man with the crown
+          Weighing him down.
+    Plumed and petted,
+    Galled and fretted!
+    Why do you eye him askance
+    With a quiver of hate in your glance?
+    Why not conceive him as human,
+    Nursed at the breast of a woman,
+    Growing, mayhap, as he could,
+          Not as he would?
+    How are you sure you would be
+    Better and wiser than he?
+
+    Look at the woman whose eye
+          Follows you by.
+    Silked and satined,
+    Scented, fattened!
+    Why does the half smile slip
+    Into a sneer on your lip?
+    You pity her? Ah, but the fashion
+    Of your complacent compassion.
+    Pity her! yet you have said,
+    "Better the creature were dead.
+    What is there left here for her
+          But to err?"
+    Thus would you make the world right,
+    Hiding its ills from your sight.
+
+    Look at the man with the pack
+          Breaking his back.
+    Ragged, squalid,
+    Wretched, stolid.
+    And you are sorry, you say,
+    (Much as you are at a play.)
+    But do you say to him, "Brother,
+    Twin-born son of our mother
+    What were the word, or the deed
+          Fitting your need?"
+    Or, as he slouches by,
+    Do you breathe "God be praised, I am I?"
+
+[Illustration: "God be praised, I am I!"
+
+_Page 74._]
+
+
+
+
+THE SQUEALER.
+
+
+    Of course some people are born so bright
+    That no matter what one may say, or write,
+    The theme is old and the lesson is trite,
+    Which is what you may say, as these lines unreel
+    And I mildly suggest it is better to feel
+                Than to squeal.
+
+    Everybody knows that? Yes, it's certain they do,
+    Everybody, that is, with exception of two,
+    Of whom I am one and the other is you.
+    But for us the lesson is still remote,
+    Although we commit it and cite it and quote
+                It by rote.
+
+    But still when you thrill with the thudding thump
+    From the fist of the fellow you tried to bump
+    And the world looks hard at the swelling lump,
+    There's a strong temptation to open your door
+    And invite the public to hear you roar
+                That you're sore.
+
+    And again, tho' 'tis plain as the printed page:--
+    "Keep your hand on the lever and watch the gauge
+    When the fire-pot's full and the boilers rage,"
+    How often the steam-pressure grows and grows
+    And before the engineer cares or knows,
+                Up she goes.
+
+    So why should you fret if I send you to school
+    Again to consider the sapient rule
+    That Wisdom is Silence and Speech is a Fool.
+    Close up! and a year from to-day you will kneel
+    And thank the good Lord that you knew how to feel
+                And not squeal.
+
+
+
+
+DISTANCE AND DISENCHANTMENT.
+
+
+    He was playing New York, and on Broadway at that;
+      I was playing in stock, in Chicago.
+    I heard that his Hamlet fell fearfully flat;
+      He heard I was fierce, as Iago.
+    Each looked to the other exceedingly small;
+    We were too far apart, that is all.
+    You, too, if your vision is ever reflective,
+    Have noticed your rival is small in perspective.
+
+    I heard him in Memphis (a chance matinée);
+      He heard me (one Sunday) in Dallas.
+    His critics, I swore, never witnessed the play;
+      He vowed mine were prompted by malice.
+    A pleasanter fellow I cannot recall.
+    We were closer together; that's all.
+    And your rival, too, if you once see him clearly,
+    Is clever, or how could he rival you, nearly?
+
+    In Seattle they said he was greater than Booth,
+      (Or in Portland, perhaps; I've forgotten);
+    I said 'twas ungracious to speak the plain truth,
+      But his work in the first act was rotten.
+    I had only intended to speak of the thrall
+    Of his wonderful fifth act; that's all.
+    But when a man's praised far ahead of his talents,
+    I guess you say something to even the balance.
+
+    In Atlanta I heard a remark that he made
+      And again in Mobile, Alabama;--
+    That he hardly thought Shakespeare was meant to be played
+      Like a ten-twenty-thirt' melodrama.
+    Oh, well, there was one honey-drop in the gall;
+    The fellow was jealous; that's all.
+    And you, too, have found, when a friendship is broken,
+    That his words are worse than the ones you have spoken.
+
+[Illustration: To even the balance
+
+_Page 77._]
+
+
+
+
+FAMILY RESEMBLANCE.
+
+
+    I used to boost the P. and P.,
+    Designed to run from sea to sea,
+    From Portland, Ore., to Portland, Me.,
+    But which, as all the maps agree,
+    Begins somewhere in Minnesota
+    And peters out in North Dakota.
+    You gibed because I used to mock
+    Its streaks of rust and rolling-stock,
+    Its schedule and its G. P. A.
+    (Who took your Annual away,)
+    But lately you seem much inclined
+    To own a sudden change of mind.
+                Ah, me,
+    You're much like other folks, I see.
+
+    I much admired the book reviews
+    Of Quillip of the Daily News.
+    I laughed to see him put the screws
+    On some sprig of the late Who's-Whos,
+    Tear off his verbiage and skin him
+    To show the little there was in him.
+    You said the book he wrote himself
+    Lay stranded on the dealer's shelf
+    And wasn't worthy a critique;
+    (Just what he said of mine last week).
+    Perhaps your reasoning was strong
+    And you were right and I was wrong.
+                Heigho!
+    I'm very much like you, I know.
+
+    O'Brien's zeal ran almost daft
+    In its antipathy to graft.
+    He raked the practice fore and aft;
+    Lord! how his sulphurous breath would waft
+    "Eternal and infernal tarmint
+    To ivery grasping, grafting, varmint."
+    The worst of these upon the planet,
+    He said, were those who wanted granite
+    In public buildings,--"yis, begorry!"
+    (O'Brien owns a sandstone quarry.)
+    Of course I'd hate to see it tested,
+    But would he be less interested
+    In civic virtue--uninvested?
+                Oh, dear!
+    O'Brien's much like us, I fear.
+
+
+
+
+NEED.
+
+
+    Don't you remember how you and I
+    Held a property nobody wanted to buy
+              In San José,
+              Until one day
+    A man came along from Franklin, Pa.?
+    And didn't we jump till we happened to find
+    The chap wasn't going it wholly blind,
+    But all the rest of the block was bought
+    And he simply had to have our lot.
+    Well, didn't our land go up in price
+    Till double the figures would scarce suffice?
+
+    And don't we sometimes figure and fret
+    How he got the best of us, even yet?
+
+    Don't you remember the perfect plan
+    You had, which needed another man
+              To make it win,
+              To jump right in
+    And everlasting make things spin?
+    And you said I had the requisite dash
+    And also the trifle of hoarded cash.
+    Was I glad to get in? Well, yes, indeed!
+    Until I saw the compelling need
+    Which had brought you to me, and then, "Ho! ho!
+    None of that for me, nay, not for Joe."
+
+    And I'm always provoked when I think you made
+    The plan get along without my aid.
+
+    Don't you remember the time we met
+    At Des Moines, or was it at Winterset?
+              But anyway, you
+              Were feeling blue
+    And tickled to see me through and through.
+    And "Come, let's open a bottle of--ink,"
+    Said you, "and see if it's good to drink."
+    But weren't you sorry because you spoke
+    When I had to tell you I was "broke"?
+    Oh, you lent me the saw-buck, I know, but still
+    I fancied your ardor had taken a chill.
+
+    And you've never been able to quite forget
+    That once I was "broke," and in your debt.
+
+
+
+
+BETTER.
+
+
+    There's only one motto you need
+        To succeed:
+                        "Better."
+    To other man's winning? Then you
+        Must do
+                        Better.
+    From the baking of bread
+      To the breaking a head,
+    From rhyming a ballad
+      To sliming a salad,
+    From mending of ditches
+      To spending of riches,
+    Follow the rule to the uttermost letter:
+                        "Better!"
+
+    Of course you may say but a few
+        Can do
+                        Better;
+    And you're going to strive
+    So that all may thrive
+                        Better.
+    And it's right you are
+        To follow the star,
+              Set in the heavens, afar, afar;
+    But still with your eyes
+        On the skies
+              It is wise
+    To be riding a mule,
+        Or guiding a school,
+    Thatching a hovel
+    Or hatching a novel,
+    Foretelling weather,
+    Or selling shoe-leather;
+    And remember you must
+        Be doing it just
+              A wee dust
+                        Better.
+
+    And 'tis quite
+        As right
+              For you to cite
+    That the author might,
+        Or ought, to write
+              A heavenly sight
+                        Better!
+    For which sharp word I am much your debtor,
+    Knowing none other could file my fetter
+                        Better.
+
+[Illustration: "Saving repairs and wrath"
+
+_Page 85._]
+
+
+
+
+FORGET WHAT THE OTHER MAN HATH.
+
+
+    What do I care for your four-track line?
+      I have a country path;
+    And this is the message I've taken for mine:--
+      "Forget what the other man hath."
+
+    What do I care for your giant trees?
+      I'd rather whittle a lath,
+    And my motto helps me to take my ease;--
+      "Forget what the other man hath."
+
+    What do I care for your Newport beach?
+      A tub's as good for a bath.
+    And I keep my solace in constant reach:--
+      "Forget what the other man hath."
+
+    What do I care for your automobile?
+      I'm saving repairs and wrath,
+    My proverb goes well with an old style wheel;--
+      "Forget what the other man hath."
+
+    What do I care if you scorn my rime?
+      For this is its aftermath;--
+    It sounds so well I shall try, (sometime,)
+      To "forget what the other man hath!"
+
+
+
+
+THE WHET.
+
+
+    The day that I loaf when I ought to employ it
+    Has, somehow, the flavor which makes me enjoy it.
+                So the man with no work
+                He may joyously shirk
+    I envy no more than I do the Grand Turk.
+    He most is in need of a holiday, who,
+    In this workaday world, has no duty to do.
+
+    The dollar you waste when you ought not to spend it
+    Buys something no plutocrat's millions could lend it,
+                For if once you exhaust
+                All your care of the cost,
+    Full half of the pleasure of purchase is lost,
+    So I trust you are one who is wise in discerning
+    The value of spending is most in the earning.
+
+    My little success which was nearest complete
+    Was that which I tore from the teeth of defeat,
+                And the man who can hit
+                With his wisdom and wit
+    Without any effort, I envy no whit.
+    The genius whose laurels grow always the greenest
+    Finds pleasure in plenty, but misses the keenest.
+
+
+
+
+WHAT SORT ARE YOU?
+
+
+    "How much do you want for your A. Street lot?"
+      Said a real estate man to me.
+    I looked as if I were lost in thought
+      And then I replied: "Let's see;--
+    Black's sold last year at fifty the foot
+    And without using algebra that should put
+    My figure at sixty now, I guess,
+    Or a trifle more, or a trifle less."
+    I was anxious to sell at fifty straight,
+    Or I might have been glad of forty-eight.
+    Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;
+    What sort of a bluff are you?
+
+    "And what do you think of these railroad rates?"
+      The man with a bald brow said,
+    "For you have travelled through all the states
+      And have heard a good deal and read."
+    "The railroad lines," I wisely replied
+    "Are the lines with which our trade is tied,
+    And the wretches who take their rebates set
+    New knots in the bonds under which we fret."
+    But, now I remember, I once rode free
+    And forgot that the road rebated me!
+    Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, its true;
+    How much of a bluff are you?
+
+    "You've been to hear 'Siegfried' and found it fine?"
+      Cried a classical friend one day.
+    "I'm sure your impressions accord with mine,
+      But I want your own words and way.
+    And, oh, "the tone-color beats belief,"
+    And, oh, "dynamics," and oh, "motif,"
+    And "chiar-oscura, how finely abstruse,"
+    And oh, la-la-la, and oh, well, what's the use?
+    For the only thing I understood in the play
+    Was that dippy, old dragon of _papier-maché_.
+    Oh, yes, I'm a bit of a bluff, it's true;
+    What style of a bluff are you?
+
+    "And the senator should, you believe, be returned?"
+      Said a newspaper-man to me.
+    "He's as rotten a rascal as ever burned,"
+      I said. "May I quote?" asked he.
+    "Oh, no," I replied, "if you're going to quote,
+    Just remark that his friends are regretting to note
+    That the exigencies of the party case
+    Indicate that he shouldn't re-enter the race."
+    For the senator sometime may possibly be
+    Interviewed by a newspaper-man about me.
+    No, none of these cases may quite fit you,
+    But what sort of a bluff _are_ you?
+
+[Illustration: "And, oh, the tone color beats belief"
+
+_Page 88._]
+
+
+
+
+THE CRITICS.
+
+
+    As a matter of fact,
+    I am sure I can act,
+    And so,
+          When I go,
+                To the show,
+    Not the art of an Irving
+    Seems wholly deserving,
+    And though Booth were the star
+    He'd have many a jar,
+    If he heard the critique
+    Which I frequently speak,
+          As you
+            Do,
+            Too.
+
+    Written deep in my heart
+    Is a knowledge of art,
+    For why?
+          I've an eye
+                Like a die.
+    And where Raphael's paint
+    Has bedizened some saint,
+    I note his perspective
+    Is sadly defective,
+    And you? O, I know
+    When you've looked on Corot
+          The same
+            Blame
+            Came.
+
+    And the world would have gained
+    If my voice had been trained,
+    For my ear
+          Is severe,
+                As I hear
+    De Reszke and Patti.
+    (I've heard 'em sing "ratty!")
+    And the crowd has yelled "Bis!"
+    When a call for police
+    Should have shortened the score.
+    Was there ever a more
+          Absurd
+            Word
+            Heard?
+
+    And I feel, now and then,
+    I could handle a pen,
+    For indeed,
+          As I heed
+                What I read,
+    I observe many faults;
+    Homer nods, Shakespere halts,
+    Dante's sad, Pope is trite,
+    Poe's mechanic, Holmes light,
+    Yet so easy to do
+    Is the thing, even you
+          Might
+          Write
+          Quite
+          Bright!
+
+
+
+
+PLUG.
+
+
+    As you haven't asked me for advice, I'll give it to you now:
+                    Plug!
+    No matter who or what you are, or where you are, the how
+                    Is plug.
+    You may take your dictionary, unabridged, and con it through,
+    You may swallow the Britannica and all its retinue,
+    But here I lay it f. o. b.--the only word for you
+                    Is plug.
+
+    Are you in the big procession, but away behind the band?
+                    Plug!
+    On the cobble, or asphaltum, in the mud or in the sand,
+                    Plug!
+    Oh, you'll hear the story frequently of how some clever man
+    Cut clean across the country, so that now he's in the van;
+    You may think that you will do it, but I don't believe you can,
+                    So plug!
+
+[Illustration: Do you want to reach the heights?
+
+_Page 92._]
+
+    Are you singing in the chorus? Do you want to be a star?
+                    Plug!
+    You may think that you're a genius, but I don't believe you are,
+                    So plug!
+    Oh, you'll hear of this or that one who was born without a name,
+    Who slept eleven hours a day and dreamed the way to fame,
+    Who simply couldn't push it off, so rapidly it came!
+                    But plug.
+
+    Are you living in the valley? Do you want to reach the height?
+                    Plug!
+    Where the hottest sun of day is and the coldest stars of night?
+                    Plug!
+    Oh, it may be you're a fool, but if a fool you want to be,
+    If you want to climb above the crowd so every one can see
+    Just how a fool may look when he is at his apogee,
+                    Why, plug!
+
+    Can you make a mile a minute? Do you want to make it two?
+                    Plug!
+    Are you good and up against it? Well, the only thing to do
+                    Is plug.
+    Oh, you'll find some marshy places, where the crust is pretty thin,
+    And when you think you're gliding out, you're only sliding in,
+    But the only thing for you to do is think of this and grin,
+                    And plug.
+
+    There's many a word that's prettier that hasn't half the cheer
+                    Of plug.
+    It may not save you in a day, but try it for a year.
+                    Plug!
+    And to show you I am competent to tell you what is what,
+    I assure you that I never yet have made a centre shot,
+    Which surely is an ample demonstration that I ought
+                    To plug.
+
+
+
+
+FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTENT.
+
+
+    I.
+
+    You sometimes think you'd like to be
+                John D.?
+    And not a man you know would dare
+    To josh you on your handsome hair,
+    Or say, "Hey, John, it's rather rude
+    To boost refined and jump on crude,
+    To help Chicago University,
+    Or bull the doctrine of--immersity."
+
+
+    II.
+
+    You wouldn't care to be the Pope,
+                I hope?
+    With not a chum to call your own,
+    To hale you up by telephone,
+    With, "Say, old man, I hope you're free
+    To-night. Bring Mrs. Pope to tea.
+    Let some one else lock up the pearly
+    Gateway to-night and get here early!"
+
+
+    III.
+
+    Perhaps you sometimes deem the Czar
+                A star?
+    With not a palm in all the land
+    To strike his fairly, hand to hand,
+    With not a man in all the pack
+    To fetch a hand against his back
+    And cry, "Well met, Old Nick, come out
+    And let us trot the kids about.
+    Tut, man! you needn't look so pale,
+    A red flag means an auction sale."
+
+
+    IV.
+
+    I'll bet even Shakespeare's name was "Will,"
+                Until
+    He was so dead that he was great,
+    For fame can only isolate.
+    And better than "The Immortal Bard"
+    Were "Hello, Bill," and "Howdy, pard!"
+    Would he have swapped his comrades' laughter
+    For all the praise of ages after?
+
+
+
+
+A SONG OF REST.
+
+
+    I have sung the song of striving,
+    Of the struggling, of arriving,
+    Of making of one's self a horse and mounting him and driving!
+            But now, let's cease;
+            Let's look for peace.
+    Let's forget the mark of money,
+      Let's forget the love of fame.
+    Life is ours and skies are sunny;
+      What is worry but a name?
+    Let's sit down and whiff and whittle,
+    Let us loaf and laugh a little.
+
+    (Here the youngest spoiled the rime
+    By running to me for a dime.)
+
+    I have sung the joy of doing,
+    Of the pleasure of pursuing,
+    And how life is like a woman and our role and rule is wooing,
+            But now, O let
+            Us cease to fret!
+    Let us cease our vain desiring;
+      Water's better than Cliquot;
+    What is honor but perspiring?
+      Wealth's another name for woe.
+    Let us spread out in the clover,
+    Just too lazy to turn over,--
+
+     (Here my wife brought in the news:
+    All the children need new shoes.)
+
+    I have sung the song of action,
+    Of the sweet of satisfaction
+    Of pounding, pounding, pounding opposition to a fraction,
+            But now, let's quit;
+            Let's rest a bit.
+    Money only makes us greedy,
+    Life's success is but a taunt.
+    He alone is never needy
+    Who has learned to laugh at want.
+    Let us loaf and laugh and wallow;
+    Too much work to even swallow--
+
+    (Here's the mail and bills are curses;
+    I must try to sell these verses.)
+
+
+
+
+DESIRE.
+
+
+    Oh, the ripe, red apple which handily hung
+    And flaunted and taunted and swayed and swung,
+    Till it itched your fingers and tickled your tongue,
+    For it was juicy and you were young!
+    But you held your hands and you turned your head,
+    And you thought of the switch which hung in the shed,
+    And you didn't take it (or so you said),
+      But tell me--didn't you want to?
+
+    Oh, the rounded maiden who passed you by,
+    Whose cheek was dimpled, whose glance was shy,
+    But who looked at you out of the tail of her eye,
+    And flirted her skirt just a trifle high!
+    Oh, you were human and not sedate,
+    But you thought of the narrow way and straight,
+    And you didn't follow (or so you state),
+      But tell me--didn't you want to?
+
+    Oh, the golden chink and the sibilant sign
+      Which sang of honey and love and wine,
+    Of pleasure and power when the sun's a-shine
+    And plenty and peace in the day's decline!
+    Oh, the dream was schemed and the play was planned;
+    You had nothing to do but to reach your hand,
+    But you didn't (or so I understand),
+      But tell me--didn't you want to?
+
+    Oh, you wanted to, yes; and hence you crow
+    That the Want To within you found its foe
+    Which wanted you not to want to, and so
+    You were able to answer always "No."
+    So you tell yourself you are pretty fine clay
+    To have tricked temptation and turned it away;
+    But wait, my friend, for a different day!
+      Wait till you want to want to!
+
+[Illustration: "Desire"
+
+_Page 99._]
+
+
+
+
+THERE IS, OH, SO MUCH.
+
+
+    There is oh, so much for a man to be
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    He may cover the world like the searching sea
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    He may be of the rush of the city's roar
+    And his song may sing where the condors soar,
+    Or may dip to the dark of Labrador,
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+
+    There is oh, so much for a man to do
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    He may sort the suns of Andromeda through
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    Or he may strive, as a good man must,
+    For the wretch at his feet who licks the dust,
+    And never learn how to be even just
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+
+    There is oh, so much for a man to learn
+      In nineteen hundred and now:
+    The least and the most he should trouble to earn
+      In nineteen hundred and now,
+    The message burned bright on the heavenly scroll,
+    The little he needs that his stomach be whole,
+    The vastness of vision to sate his soul,
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+
+    There is oh, so much for a man to get
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    He may drench the earth in vicarious sweat
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    And his wealth may be but a lifelong itch,
+    While the lowliest digger within his ditch
+    May have gained the little to make him rich
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+
+    There is oh, so much for a man to try
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    The sea is so deep and the hill so high
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    But sometimes we look at our little ball
+    Where the smallest is great and the greatest small
+    And wonder the why and the what of it all
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+
+    There is oh, so much, so we work as we may
+      In nineteen hundred and now,
+    And loiter a little along the way
+      In nineteen hundred and now.
+    O, the honeybee works, but the honeybee clings
+    To the flowers of life and the honeybee sings!
+    Let us eat the sweet and forget the stings
+      In nineteen hundred and now!
+
+
+
+
+HOW DID YOU DIE?
+
+
+    Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
+      With a resolute heart and cheerful?
+    Or hide your face from the light of day
+      With a craven soul and fearful?
+    Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
+      Or a trouble is what you make it,
+    And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
+      But only how did you take it?
+
+    You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
+      Come up with a smiling face.
+    It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
+      But to lie there--that's disgrace.
+    The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
+      Be proud of your blackened eye!
+    It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
+      It's how did you fight--and why?
+
+    And though you be done to the death, what then?
+      If you battled the best you could,
+    If you played your part in the world of men,
+      Why, the Critic will call it good.
+    Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
+      And whether he's slow or spry,
+    It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
+      But only how did you die?
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Impertinent Poems, by Edmund Vance Cooke
+
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