Sketch From The Life, A

Its eyes are gray;
        Its hair is either brown
                Or black;
And, strange to say,
        Its dresses button down
                The back!

It wears a plume
        That loves to frisk around
                My ear.
It crowds the room
        With cushions in a mound
                And queer

Old rugs and lamps
        In corners a la Turque
                And things.
It steals my stamps,
        And when I want to work
                It sings!

It rides and skates,
        But then it comes and fills
                My walls
With plaques and plates
        And keeps me paying bills
                And calls.

It's firm; and if
        I should my many woes
                Deplore,
'Twould only sniff
        And perk its little nose
                Some more.

It's bright, though small;
        Its name, you may have guessed,
                Is "Wife."
But, after all,
        It gives a wondrous zest
                To life!

Arthur Guiterman

Arthur Guiterman was an American writer and poet best known for his humorous verse. Born on November 20, 1871, Guiterman co-founded the Poetry Society of America in 1910 and served as its president from 1925 to 1926. His poems often included witty observations and clever wordplay, making him a popular poet during his time. He passed away on January 11, 1943. Despite his prominence in the early 20th century, he is less well-known today.

Arthur Guiterman

Strictly Germ-Proof

Arthur Guiterman, Simple Poetry

English

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Sketch.

    A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
    And still his precious self his dear delight;
    Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
    Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
    A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
    Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour:
    So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
    Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
    Much specious lore, but little understood;
    Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:
    His solid sense, by inches you must tell.
    But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
    His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
    Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

Robert Burns

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 07: Porcelain

You see that porcelain ranged there in the window,
Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds,
And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy?
See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges!
Theyre works of art, minutely seen and felt,
Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure
To spend your blood like this?

Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain,
If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming
Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal,
My brain unfolding! There youll see me sitting
Day after day, close to a certain window,
Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . .

Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . .
Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . .
Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight,
Dilate to...

Conrad Aiken

A Likeness

Some people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup:
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
Asks Who was the lady, I wonder?
T is a daub John bought at a sale,
Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder:
What a shade beneath her nose!
Snuff-taking, I suppose,
Adds the cousin, while Johns corns ail.

Or else, there s no wife in the case,
But the portrait s queen of the place,
Alone mid the other spoils
Of youth, masks, gloves and foils,
And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,
And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
And the cast from a fist (not, alas! mine,
But my masters, the Tipton Slasher),
And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,
And a satin shoe used for cigar-case,
And th...

Robert Browning

In Bohemia.

Ha! My dear! I'm back again -
    Vendor of Bohemia's wares!
Lordy! How it pants a man
    Climbing up those awful stairs!
    Well, I've made the dealer say
    Your sketch might sell, anyway!
    And I've made a publisher
    Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.

In Bohemia, Kate, my dear -
    Lodgers in a musty flat
On the top floor - living here
    Neighborless, and used to that, -
    Like a nest beneath the eaves,
    So our little home receives
    Only guests of chirping cheer -
    We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!

Under your north-light there, you
    At your easel, with a stain
On your nose of Prussian blue,
    Paint your bits of shine and rain;
    With my feet thrown up at will
    O'er my littered window-sill,

James Whitcomb Riley

A Quarrel with Love

Oh that I could write a story
    Of love's dealing with affection!
How he makes the spirit sorry
    That is touch'd with his infection.

But he doth so closely wind him,
    In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
That the heart can never find him
    Till it be too much diseased.

'Tis a subtle kind or spirit
    Of a venom-kind of nature,
That can, like a coney-ferret,
    Creep unawares upon a creature.

Never eye that can behold it,
    Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor conceit that can unfold it,
    Though in thoughts be all its being.

Oh! it maketh old men witty,
    Young men wanton, women idle,
While that patience weeps, for pity
    Reason bite not nature's bridle.

What it is, in conjecture;
    S...

Nicholas Breton

My Jolly Friend's Secret

Ah, friend of mine, how goes it
    Since you've taken you a mate? -
Your smile, though, plainly shows it
    Is a very happy state!
Dan Cupid's necromancy!
    You must sit you down and dine,
And lubricate your fancy
    With a glass or two of wine.

And as you have "deserted,"
    As my other chums have done,
While I laugh alone diverted,
    As you drop off one by one - -
And I've remained unwedded,
    Till - you see - look here - that I'm,
In a manner, "snatched bald-headed"
    By the sportive hand of Time!

I'm an "old 'un!" yes, but wrinkles
    Are not so plenty, quite,
As to cover up the twinkles
    Of the boy - ain't I right?
Yet there are ghosts of kisses
    Under this mustache of mine
My mem'ry only...

James Whitcomb Riley