PEDOMETER

My thoughts beat out in sonnets while I walk, And every evening on the homeward street I find the rhythm of my marching feet Throbs into verses (though the rhyme may balk).

I think the sonneteers were walking men: The form is dour and rigid, like a clamp, But with the swing of legs the tramp, tramp, tramp Of syllables begins to thud, and then-- Lo! while you seek a rhyme for _hook_ or _crook_ Vanished your shabby coat, and you are kith To all great walk-and-singers--Meredith, And Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, and Rupert Brooke!

Free verse is poor for walking, but a sonnet-- O marvellous to stride and brood upon it!

HOSTAGES

"He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune."--BACON.

Aye, Fortune, thou hast hostage of my best!

I, that was once so heedless of thy frown, Have armed thee cap- -pie to strike me down, Have given thee blades to hold against my breast.

My virtue, that was once all self-possessed, Is parceled out in little hands, and brown Bright eyes, and in a sleeping baby's gown: To threaten these will put me to the test.

Sure, since there are these pitiful poor c.h.i.n.ks Upon the makeshift armor of my heart, For thee no honor lies in such a fight!

And thou wouldst shame to vanquish one, me-thinks, Who came awake with such a painful start To hear the coughing of a child at night.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Hostages._]

ARS DURA

How many evenings, walking soberly Along our street all dappled with rich sun, I please myself with words, and happily Time rhymes to footfalls, planning how they run; And yet, when midnight comes, and paper lies Clean, white, receptive, all that one can ask, Alas for drowsy spirit, weary eyes And traitor hand that fails the well loved task!

Who ever learned the sonnet's bitter craft But he had put away his sleep, his ease, The wine he loved, the men with whom he laughed To brood upon such thankless tricks as these?

And yet, such joy does in that craft abide He greets the paper as the groom the bride!

O. HENRY--APOTHECARY

("O. Henry" once worked in a drug-store in Greensboro, N.C.)

Where once he measured camphor, glycerine, Quinine and potash, peppermint in bars, And all the oils and essences so keen That druggists keep in rows of stoppered jars-- Now, blender of strange drugs more volatile, The master pharmacist of joy and pain Dispenses sadness tinctured with a smile And laughter that dissolves in tears again.

O brave apothecary! You who knew What dark and acid doses life prefers And yet with friendly face resolved to brew These sparkling potions for your customers-- In each prescription your Physician writ You poured your rich compa.s.sion and your wit!

FOR THE CENTENARY OF KEATS'S SONNET (1816)

"On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer."

I knew a scientist, an engineer, Student of tensile strengths and calculus, A man who loved a cantilever truss And always wore a pencil on his ear.

My friend believed that poets all were queer, And literary folk ridiculous; But one night, when it chanced that three of us Were reading Keats aloud, he stopped to hear.

Lo, a new planet swam into his ken!

His eager mind reached for it and took hold.

Ten years are by: I see him now and then, And at alumni dinners, if cajoled, He mumbles gravely, to the cheering men:-- _Much have I travelled in the realms of gold._

TWO O'CLOCK

Night after night goes by: and clocks still chime And stars are changing patterns in the dark, And watches tick, and over-puissant Time Benumbs the eager brain. The dogs that bark, The trains that roar and rattle in the night, The very cats that prowl, all quiet find And leave the darkness empty, silent quite: Sleep comes to chloroform the fretting mind.

So all things end: and what is left at last?

Some scribbled sonnets tossed upon the floor, A memory of easy days gone past, A run-down watch, a pipe, some clothes we wore-- And in the darkened room I lean to know How warm her dreamless breath does pause and flow.

THE COMMERCIAL TRAVELLER

Ah very sweet! If news should come to you Some afternoon, while waiting for our eve, That the great Manager had made me leave To travel on some territory new; And that, whatever homeward winds there blew, I could not touch your hand again, nor heave The logs upon our hearth and bid you weave Some wistful tale before the flames that grew....

Then, when the sudden tears had ceased to blind Your pansied eyes, I wonder if you could Remember rightly, and forget aright?

Remember just your lad, uncouthly good, Forgetting when he failed in spleen or spite?

Could you remember him as always kind?

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.