A Ballade Of Montaigne

I sit before the firelight's glow
    With all the world in apogee,
And con good Master Florio
    With pipe a-light; and as I see
    Queen Bess herself with book a-knee,
Reading it o'er and o'er again,
    Here, 'neath my cosy mantel-tree,
I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.

Now howls the wind and drives the snow;
    The traveler shivers on the lea;
While, with my precious folio,
    Behold a happy devotee
    To book and warmth and reverie!
The blast upon the window-pane
    Disturbs me not, as trouble-free,
I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.

I am content, and thus I know
    A mind as calm as summer sea, -
A heart that stranger is to woe.
    To happiness I hold the key
    In this rare, sweet philosophy;
And while the Fates so fair ordain,
    Well pleased with Destiny's decree,
I smoke my pipe and read Montaigne.


ENVOY

Dear Prince! aye, more than prince to me,
    Thou monarch of immortal reign!
Always thy subject I would be,
    And smoke my pipe and read Montaigne!

Arthur Macy

Arthur Macy was an American poet known for his contributions during the 19th century. Born on June 6, 1842, he became widely recognized for his poignant and evocative verses, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry gained considerable respect and admiration during his lifetime. He passed away on June 1, 1904.

Arthur Macy

Dinner Favors, To S. B. F.

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The Oyster

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Thou Art To Me

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The Book Of Life

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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A Smoke.

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O others may boast of their pleasures galore--
The miser with rapture may count o'er his store,
And some may imagine great happiness there
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While wintry winds whistle and fast flies the snow,
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II.

O doctors may tell you and others declare
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That nicotine poison will flow through your veins
And nervous distraction will rack with its pains;
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When wintry winds whistle and snow's pouring down,
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In little qualms of stinted alms;
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I smoke as if I were a shack
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To feed the ploughman coming home.

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At Marliave's when eventide
Finds rare companions at my side,
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    At quaint conceit, or kindly jest,
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No voice unkind our faults to chide,
Our smallest virtue magnified;
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    I ask not for a lot more blest,
    Nor do I crave a sweeter rest
Than that which comes with eventide
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