Song for a Little House
I'M glad our house is a little house,
Not too tall nor too wide:
I'm glad the hovering butterflies
Feel free to come inside.
Our little house is a friendly house.
It is not shy or vain;
It gossips with the talking trees,
And makes friends with the rain.
And quick leaves cast a shimmer of green
Against our whited walls,
And in the phlox, the dutious bees
Are paying duty calls.
poem by Christopher Morley
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The barren music of a word or phrase,
THE barren music of a word or phrase,
The futile arts of syllable and stress,
He sought. The poetry of common days
He did not guess.
The simplest, sweetest rhythms life affords-
Unselfish love, true effort truly done,
The tender themes that underlie all words-
He knew not one.
The human cadence and the subtle chime
Of little laughters, home and child and wife,
He knew not. Artist merely in his rhyme,
Not in his life.
poem by Christopher Morley
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Burning Leaves in Spring
WHEN withered leaves are lost in flame
Their eddying gosts, a thin blue haze,
Blow through the thickets whence they came
On amberlucent autumn days.
The cool green woodland heart receives
Their dim, dissolving, phantom breath;
In young hereditaty leaves
They see their happy life-in-death.
My minutes perish as they glow-
Time burns my crazy bonfire through;
But ghosts of blackened hours still blow,
Eternal Beauty, back to you!
poem by Christopher Morley
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The Milkman
EARLY in the morning, when the dawn is on the roofs,
You hear his wheels come rolling, you hear his horses hoofs;
You hear the bottles clinking, and then he drives away:
You yawn in bed, turn over, and begin another day!
The old-time dairy maids are dear to every poet's heart-
I'd rather be the dairy man and drive a little cart,
And bustle round the village in the early morning blue,
And hang my reigns upon a hook, as I've seen Casey do.
poem by Christopher Morley
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When I a householder became
EARLY in the morning, when the dawn is on the roofs,
You hear his wheels come rolling, you hear his horses hoofs;
You hear the bottles clinking, and then he drives away:
You yawn in bed, turn over, and begin another day!
The old-time dairy maids are dear to every poet's heart-
I'd rather be the dairy man and drive a little cart,
And bustle round the village in the early morning blue,
And hang my reigns upon a hook, as I've seen Casey do.
poem by Christopher Morley
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On Naming a House
WHEN I a householder became
I had to give my house a name.
I thought I'd call it 'Poplar Trees,'
Or 'Widdershins' or 'Velvet Bees,'
Or 'Just Beneath a Star.'
Or 'As You Like It,' 'If You Please,'
Or 'Nicotine' or 'Bread and Cheese,'
'Full Moon' or 'Doors Ajar.'
But still I sought some subtle charm,
Some rune to guard my roof from harm
And keep the devil far;
A thought of this, and I was saved!
I had my letter-heads engraved
The House Where Brown Eyes Are.
poem by Christopher Morley
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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 minister 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 God of Unbent Knees!
poem by Christopher Morley
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Smells
WHY is it that the poet tells
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 printer's 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 ship smells best of all to me!
poem by Christopher Morley
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The Intruder
AS I sat, to sift my dreaming
To the meet and needed word,
Came a merry Interruption
With insistence to be heard.
Smiling stood a maid beside me,
Half alluring and half shy;
Soft the white hint of her bosom-
Escapade was in her eye.
'I must not be so invaded,'
(IN anger then I cried)-
'Can't you see that I am busy?
Tempting creature, stay outside!
'Pearly rascal, I am writing:
I am now composing verse-
Fie on antic invitation:
Wanton, vanish-fly-disperse!
[...] Read more
poem by Christopher Morley
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The Wedded Lover
I READ in our old journals of the days
When our first love was April-sweet and new,
How fair it blossomed and deep-rooted grew
Despite the adverse time; and our amaze
At moon and stars and beauty beyond praise
That burgeoned all about us: gold and blue
The heaven arched us in, and all we knew
Was gentleness. We walked on happy ways.
They said by now the path would be more steep,
the sunsets paler and less mild the air;
Rightly we heeded not; it was not true.
We will not tell the secret-let it keep.
I know not how I thought those days so fair
These being so much fairer, spent with you
poem by Christopher Morley
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