A circle is a happy thing to be-- Think how the joyful perpendicular Erected at the kiss of tangency Must meet my central point, my avatar!

They talk of 14 points: yet only 3 Determine every circle: =Q. E. D.=

TO A VAUDEVILLE TERRIER SEEN ON A LEASH, IN THE PARK

Three times a day--at two, at seven, at nine-- O terrier, you play your little part: Absurd in coat and skirt you push a cart, With inner anguish walk a tight-rope line.

Up there, before the hot and dazzling shine You must be rigid servant of your art, Nor watch those fluffy cats--your doggish heart Might leap and then betray you with a whine!

But sometimes, when you've faithfully rehea.r.s.ed, Your trainer takes you walking in the park, Straining to sniff the gra.s.s, to chase a frog.

The leash is slipped, and then your joy will burst-- Adorable it is to run and bark, To be--alas, how seldom--just a dog!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _You must be rigid servant of your art!_]

TO AN OLD FRIEND

(For Lloyd Williams.)

I like to dream of some established spot Where you and I, old friend, an evening through Under tobacco's fog, streaked gray and blue, Might reconsider laughters unforgot.

Beside a hearth-glow, golden-clear and hot, I'd hear you tell the oddities men do.

The clock would tick, and we would sit, we two-- Life holds such meetings for us, does it not?

Happy are men when they have learned to prize The sure unvarnished virtue of their friends, The unchanged kindness of a well-known face: On old fidelities our world depends, And runs a simple course in honest wise, Not a mere taxicab shot wild through s.p.a.ce!

TO A BURLESQUE SOUBRETTE

Upstage the great high-shafted beefy choir Squawked in 2000 watts of orange glare-- You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire.

Flung from the roof, spots red and yellow burned And followed you. The blatant bra.s.sy clang Of instruments drowned out the words you sang, But goldenly you capered, twirled and turned.

Boyish and slender, child-limbed, quick and proud, A sprite of irresistible disdain, Fair as a jonquil in an April rain, You seemed too sweet an imp for that dull crowd....

And then, behind the scenes, I heard you say, "_O Gawd, I got a h.e.l.lish cold to-day!_"

[Ill.u.s.tration:

_You came, and impudent and deuce-may-care_ _Danced where the gutter flamed with footlight fire._]

THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK

The sonnet is a trunk, and you must pack With care, to ship frail baggage far away; The octet is the trunk; sestet, the tray; Tight, but not overloaded, is the knack.

First, at the bottom, heavy thoughts you stack, And in the c.h.i.n.ks your adjectives you lay-- Your phrases, folded neatly as you may, Stowing a syllable in every crack.

Then, in the tray, your daintier stuff is hid: The tender quatrain where your moral sings-- Be careful, though, lest as you close the lid You crush and crumple all these fragile things.

Your couplet snaps the hasps and turns the key-- Ship to The Editor, marked C. O. D.

STREETS

I have seen streets where strange enchantment broods: Old ruddy houses where the morning shone In seemly quiet on their tranquil moods, Across the sills white curtains outward blown.

Their marble steps were scoured as white as bone Where scrubbing housemaids toiled on wounded knee-- And yet, among all streets that I have known These placid byways give least peace to me.

In such a house, where green light shining through (From some back garden) framed her silhouette I saw a girl, heard music blithely sung.

She stood there laughing, in a dress of blue, And as I went on, slowly, there I met An old, old woman, who had once been young.

TO THE ONLY BEGETTER

I

I have no hope to make you live in rhyme Or with your beauty to enrich the years-- Enough for me this now, this present time; The greater claim for greater sonneteers.

But O how covetous I am of NOW-- Dear human minutes, marred by human pains-- I want to know your lips, your cheek, your brow, And all the miracles your heart contains, I wish to study all your changing face, Your eyes, divinely hurt with tenderness; I hope to win your dear unstinted grace For these blunt rhymes and what they would express.

Then may you say, when others better prove:-- "_Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love._"

TO THE ONLY BEGETTER

II

When all my trivial rhymes are blotted out, Vanished our days, so precious and so few, If some should wonder what we were about And what the little happenings we knew: I wish that they might know how, night by night, My pencil, heavy in the sleepy hours, Sought vainly for some gracious way to write How much this love is ours, and only ours.

How many evenings, as you drowsed to sleep, I read to you by tawny candle-glow, And watched you down the valley dim and deep Where poppies and the April flowers grow.

Then knelt beside your pillow with a prayer, And loved the breath of pansies in your hair.