Recipe For An Orchestra Leader:

Four hundred and twenty-two movements -
    Emanuel, Swedish and Swiss -
It's a wonder the hand can keep playing,
    You'd think they'd die laughing at this!

    - Life.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCI. Lullabies.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCLXV. Paradoxes.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCXXXII. Games.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCXXX. Riddles.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Recipe For The Musical Comedy Composer:

Librettos of all of the operas,
    Some shears and a bottle of paste,
Curry the hits of last season,
    Add tumpty-tee tra la to taste.

    - Life.

Unknown

Autumn's Orchestra

(INSCRIBED TO ONE BEYOND SEAS)

Know by the thread of music woven through
This fragile web of cadences I spin,
That I have only caught these songs since you
Voiced them upon your haunting violin.

THE OVERTURE

October's orchestra plays softly on
The northern forest with its thousand strings,
And Autumn, the conductor wields anon
The Golden-rod -    The baton that he swings.

THE FIRS

There is a lonely minor chord that sings
Faintly and far along the forest ways,
When the firs finger faintly on the strings
Of that rare violin the night wind plays,
Just as it whispered once to you and me
Beneath the English pines beyond the sea.

MOSSES

The lost wind wandering, forever grieves
        Low overhead,
Above ...

Emily Pauline Johnson

Authors

The following is a recipe for an author:

Take the usual number of fingers,
Add paper, manila or white,
A typewriter, plenty of postage
And something or other to write.

    - Life.

Unknown

William Herschel Conducts

Was it a dream?--that crowded concert-room
In Bath; that sea of ruffles and laced coats;
And William Herschel, in his powdered wig,
Waiting upon the platform, to conduct
His choir and Linley's orchestra? He stood
Tapping his music-rest, lost in his own thoughts
And (did I hear or dream them?) all were mine:

My periwig's askew, my ruffle stained
With grease from my new telescope!
                    Ach, to-morrow
How Caroline will be vexed, although she grows
Almost as bad as I, who cannot leave
My work-shop for one evening.
            I must give
One last recital at St. Margaret's,
And then--farewell to music.
        Who can lead
Two lives at once?
            Yet--it has taught me much,
Thrown curious lights upon our world, to p...

Alfred Noyes

Béranger's "Broken Fiddle"

I

There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:
But feast to-day while yet you may,--
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!


II

"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,
In one of their profane caprices;
I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo!
They dashed this innocent in pieces!


III

This fiddle was the village pride--
The mirth of every fête enhancing;
Its wizard art set every heart
As well as every foot to dancing.


IV

How well the bridegroom knew its voice,
As from its strings its song went gushing!
Nor long delayed the promised maid
Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing.


V

Why, it discoursed so merrily,
It quickly banished a...

Eugene Field

Artist's Life

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,
    Mad with melody, rhythm - rife
From the very first to the final note.
    Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger-ends,
    Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,
And all that is sweetest and saddest blends
    Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade,
    In love's sweet morning and life's best prime,
When the great brass orchestra played and played,
    And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights,
    Of leaping pulses and tripping feet,
And those languid moon-washed Summer nights
    When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow,
    It brings back passion and pain a...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox