The Gargoyle

The Gargoyle often makes its perch
On a cathedral or a church,
Where, mid ecclesiastic style,
It smiles an early-Gothic smile.
And while the parson, dignified,
Spouts at his weary flock inside,
The Gargoyle, from its lofty seat,
Spouts at the people in the street,
And, like the parson, seems to say
To those beneath him, "Let us spray."
I like the Gargoyle best; it plays
So cheerfully on rainy days,
While parsons (no one can deny)
Are awful dampers--when they're dry.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

To Music

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Milk Jug

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Guglielmo Marconi

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Lion

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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The Gryphon

It chanced that Allah, looking round,
When he had made his creatures, found
Half of an Eagle and a pair
Of extra Lion legs to spare.
So, hating waste, he took some glue
And made a Gryphon of the two.
But when his handiwork he eyed,
He frowned--and it was petrified,
Doomed for all time to represent
Impatience on a monument.
Sometimes upon our path to-day
Its living counterpart will stray--
Columbia's Eagle strutting in
An awf'ly English Lion's skin,
With glass in eye and swagg'ring gait:
Behold the Gryphon up to date.

Oliver Herford

The Phantom Curate. A Fable

A BISHOP once I will not name his see
Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular
The Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan
Which pays undue attention to appearances.
He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em,
Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,
Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
Their dread of joining harmless social jollity.
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)
The ordinary pleasur...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Owl And Farmer.

        An owl took, in a barn, a station
        As fittest for deep contemplation;
        There (like a Turk) upon a beam
        He sat, as Turks sit in hareem.

        So smokers, at the Magpie met,
        Peruse the 'Post-boy' or 'Gazette;'
        And thence foretell, in wise and sure hope,
        The future destinies of Europe.

        The farmer comes to see his sheaves.
        The owl his silent soul relieves;
        "Reason in man is sheer pretence,
        Would he - were he endowed with sense -
        Treat owls with scorning? He can praise
        The birds that twitter on the sprays:
        Linnets, and larks, and nightingales,
        Yet in the nobler owl he fails.
        Should I, by daylight, view my reign,
        Th...

John Gay

A Boy In Church

"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!"
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.

Outside it blows wetter and wetter,
The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better
The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro
In silence like a shadow-show.

The parson's voice runs like a river
Over smooth rocks. I like this church:
The pews are staid, they never shiver,
They never bend or sway or lurch.
"Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain
That draws down Grace from Heaven again."

I add the hymns up, over and over,
Until there's not the least...

Robert von Ranke Graves

The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints,
Promoting quick digestion,
They talked on several curious points,
And raised this delicate question:
"Which of us two is Number One
The ghostie, or the goblin?"
And o'er the point they raised in fun
They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,
Grew more and more reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
By chalks the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
By each of them be haunted,
And so arrange...

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The Sheep And The Goat

    The thousand streets of London gray
    Repel all country sights;
    But bar not winds upon their way,
    Nor quench the scent of new-mown hay
    In depth of summer nights.

    And here and there an open spot,
    Still bare to light and dark,
    With grass receives the wanderer hot;
    There trees are growing, houses not--
    They call the place a park.

    Soft creatures, with ungentle guides,
    God's sheep from hill and plain,
    Flow thitherward in fitful tides,
    There weary lie on woolly sides,
    Or crop the grass amain.

    And from dark alley, yard, and den,
    In ragged skirts and coats,
    Come thither children of poor men,
    Wild things, untaught of word or pen--
    The little human goats.
...

George MacDonald