The Book Of Life

Whoso his book of life doth con
From title-leaf to colophon
May read, if he but wrongly look,
Some sorry pages in his book.

But if he read aright each line,
Interpreting the scheme divine,
'Twill be most fair to look upon
From title-leaf to colophon.

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

The Three Voices

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

The Stranger-Man

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Dainty Little Love

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

Saint Botolph

Arthur Macy, Simple Poetry

English

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The Book Hunter

I've spent all my money in chasing
    For books that are costly and rare;
I've made myself bankrupt in tracing
    Each prize to its ultimate lair.
And now I'm a ruined collector,
    Impoverished, ragged, and thin,
Reduced to a vanishing spectre,
    Because of my prodigal sin.

How often I've called upon Foley,
    The man who's a friend of the cranks;
Knows books that are witty or holy,
    And whether they're prizes or blanks.
For volumes on paper or vellum
    He has a most accurate eye,
And always is willing to sell 'em
    To dreamers like me who will buy.

My purse requires fences and hedges,
    Alas! it will never stay shut;
My coat-sleeves now have deckle edges,
    My hair is unkempt and "uncut."
My coat is a true fir...

Arthur Macy

The Old Cafe

You know,
Don't you, Joe,
Those merry evenings long ago?
You know the room, the narrow stair,
The wreaths of smoke that circled there,
The corner table where we sat
For hours in after-dinner chat,
And magnified
Our little world inside.
You know,
Don't you, Joe?

Ah, those nights divine!
The simple, frugal wine,
The airs on crude Italian strings,
The joyous, harmless revelings,
Just fit for us - or kings!
At times a quaint and wickered flask
Of rare Chianti, or from the homelier cask
Of modest Pilsener a stein or so,
Amid the merry talk would flow;
Or red Bordeaux
From vines that grew where dear Montaigne
Held his domain.
And you remember that dark eye,
None too shy;
In fact, she seemed a bit too free
For y...

Arthur Macy

To The Book Of Follies.

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING.


This tribute's from a wretched elf,
Who hails thee, emblem of himself.
The book of life, which I have traced,
Has been, like thee, a motley waste
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er,
One folly bringing hundreds more.
Some have indeed been writ so neat,
In characters so fair, so sweet,
That those who judge not too severely,
Have said they loved such follies dearly!
Yet still, O book! the allusion stands;
For these were penned by female hands:
The rest--alas! I own the truth--
Have all been scribbled so uncouth
That Prudence, with a withering look,
Disdainful, flings away the book.
Like thine, its pages here and there...

Thomas Moore

God's Green Book

I.

Out, out in the open fields,
Where the great, green book of God,
The book that its wisdom yields
To each soul that is not a clod,
Lies wide for the world to read,
I would go; and in flower and weed,
That letter the lines of the grass,
Would read of a better creed
Than that which the town-world has.

II.

Too long in the city streets,
The alleys of grime and sin,
Have I heard the iron beats
Of the heart of toil; whose din
And the throb of whose wild unrest
Have stunned the song in my breast,
Have marred its music and slain
The bird that was once its guest,
And my soul would find it again.

III.

Out there where the great, green book,
Whose leaves are the grass and trees,
Lies open; where each may l...

Madison Julius Cawein

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 th...

Arthur Macy

On A Library Wall

When faltering fingers bid me cease to write,
And, laying down the pen, I seek the Night,
May those, to whom the Daylight still is sweet,
With loving lips my name ofttimes repeat.
And should Belshazzar's spirit hither stray,
And linger o'er the lines I write to-day,
May he, who wept for Babylonia's fall,
Look kindly at this "writing on the wall"!

Arthur Macy