the home book of verse-4-第24部分
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
And I tell you
What I know to be true：
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed；
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled；
Ever had his legs slanted；
Ever had his bill canted；
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude。
He can't do it； because
'Tis against all bird…laws。
Anatomy teaches；
Ornithology preaches
An owl has a toe
That can't turn out so！
I've made the white owl my study for years；
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears！
Mister Brown； I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd！
To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness；
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business！〃
And the barber kept on shaving。
〃Examine those eyes。
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass；
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream；
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff。
Do take that bird down；
Have him stuffed again； Brown！〃
And the barber kept on shaving。
〃With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that。
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl；
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather。
In fact； about him there's not one natural feather。〃
Just then； with a wink and a sly normal lurch；
The owl； very gravely； got down from his perch；
Walked round； and regarded his fault…finding critic
（Who thought he was stuffed） with a glance analytic
And then fairly hooted； as if he would say：
〃Your learning's at fault this time； any way；
Don't waste it again on a live bird； I pray。
I'm an owl； you're another。 Sir Critic； good…day！〃
And the barber kept on shaving。
James Thomas Fields ＇1816…1881＇
THE BALLAD OF IMITATION
C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux。 … Alfred De Musset
If they hint； O Musician； the piece that you played
Is naught but a copy of Chopin or Spohr；
That the ballad you sing is but merely 〃conveyed〃
From the stock of the Ames and the Purcells of yore；
That there's nothing； in short； in the words or the score；
That is not as out…worn as the 〃Wandering Jew〃；
Make answer … Beethoven could scarcely do more …
That the man who plants cabbages imitates； too！
If they tell you； Sir Artist； your light and your shade
Are simply 〃adapted〃 from other men's lore；
That … plainly to speak of a 〃spade〃 as a 〃spade〃 …
You've 〃stolen〃 your grouping from three or from four；
That （however the writer the truth may deplore）；
'Twas Gainsborough painted your 〃Little Boy Blue〃；
Smile only serenely … though cut to the core …
For the man who plants cabbages imitates； too！
And you too； my Poet； be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic … 〃Sir Eperon d'Or〃 …
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store；
That no one； in fact； but a child could ignore
That you 〃lift〃 or 〃accommodate〃 all that you do；
Take heart … though your Pegasus' withers be sore …
For the man who plants cabbages imitates； too！
POSTCRIPTUM。 … And you； whom we all so adore；
Dear Critics； whose verdicts are always so new！ …
One word in your ear。 There were Critics before。 。 。 。
And the man who plants cabbages imitates； too！
Austin Dobson ＇1840…1921＇
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
When the flush of a new…born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold；
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in
the mould；
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to
his mighty heart；
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves： 〃It's pretty； but is it Art？〃
Wherefore he called to his wife； and fled to fashion his work anew …
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first； most dread review；
And he left his lore to the use of his sons … and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled： 〃Is it Art？〃 in the ear of the branded Cain。
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart；
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks： 〃It's striking； but is it Art？〃
The stone was dropped at the quarry…side and the idle derrick swung；
While each man talked of the aims of Art； and each in an alien tongue。
They fought and they talked in the North and the South； they talked
and they fought in the West；
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land； and the poor Red Clay had rest …
Had rest till that dank； blank…canvas dawn when the dove was
preened to start；
And the Devil bubbled below the keel： 〃It's human； but is it Art？〃
The tale is as old as the Eden Tree … and new as the new…cut tooth …
For each man knows ere his lip…thatch grows he is master
of Art and Truth；
And each man hears as the twilight nears； to the beat of his dying heart；
The Devil drum on the darkened pane： 〃You did it； but was it Art？〃
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice…peg；
We have learned to bottle our…parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg；
We know that the tail must wag the dog； for the horse is drawn
by the cart；
But the Devil whoops； as he whooped of old： 〃It's clever； but is it Art？〃
When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the clubroom's
green and gold；
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould …
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves；
and the ink and the anguish start；
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves： 〃It's pretty； but is it Art？〃
Now； if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow；
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago；
And if we could come when the sentry slept； and softly scurry through；
By the favor of God we might know as much … as our father Adam knew。
Rudyard Kipling ＇1865…1936＇
THE V…A…S…E
From the madding crowd they stand apart；
The maidens four and the Work of Art；
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had Culture ripest grown； …
The Gotham Million fair to see；
The Philadelphia Pedigree；
The Boston Mind of azure hue；
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo； …
For all loved Art in a seemly way；
With an earnest soul and a capital A。
。 。 。 。 。 。
Long they worshipped； but no one broke
The sacred stillness； until up spoke
The Western one from the nameless place；
Who blushing said： 〃What a lovely vace！〃
Over three faces a sad smile flew；
And they edged away from Kalamazoo。
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word。
Deftly hiding reproof in praise；
She cries： 〃'Tis； indeed； a lovely vaze！〃
But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the home of Penn；
With the consciousness of two grandpapas；
Exclaims： 〃It is quite a lovely vahs！〃
And glances round with an anxious thrill；
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill。
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee；
And gently murmurs： 〃Oh pardon me！
〃I did not catch your remark； because
I was so entranced with that charming vaws！〃
Dies erit praegelida
Sinistra quum Bostonia。
James Jeffrey Roche ＇1847…1908＇
HEM AND HAW
Hem and Haw were the sons of sin；
Created to shally and shirk；
Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on
While God did all the work。
Hem was a fogy； and Haw was a prig；
For both had the dull； dull mind；
And whenever they found a thing to do；
They yammered and went it blind。
Hem was the father of bigots and bores；
As the sands of the sea were they。
And Haw was the father of all the tribe
Who criticise to…day。
But God was an artist from the first；
And knew what he was about；
While over his shoulder sneered these two；
And advised him to rub it out。
They prophesied ruin ere man was made：
〃Such folly must surely fail！〃
And when he was done； 〃Do you think； my Lord；
He's better without a tail？〃
And still in the honest working world；
With posture and hint and smirk；
These sons of the devil are standing by
While Man does all the work。
They balk endeavor and baffle reform；
In the sacred name of law；
And over the quavering voice of Hem；
Is the droning voice of Haw。
Bliss Carman ＇1861…1929＇
MINIVER CHEEVY
Miniver Cheevy； child of scorn；
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons；
He wept that he was ever born；
And he had reasons。
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing；
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing。
Miniver sighed for what was not；
And dreamed； and rested from his labors；
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot；
And Priam's neighbors。
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant；
He mourned Romance； now on the town；
And Art； a vagrant。
Miniver loved the Medici；
Albeit he had never seen one；
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one。
Miniver cursed the commonplace；
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing；
He missed the medieval grace
Of iron clothing。
Miniver scorned the gold he sought；
But sore annoyed was he without it；
Miniver thought； and thought； and thought；
And thought about it。
Miniver Cheevy； born too late；
Scratched his head and kept on thinking；
Miniver coughed； and called it fate；
And kept on drinking。
Edwin Arlington Robinson ＇1869…1935＇
THEN AG'IN
Jim Bowker； he said； ef he'd had a fair show；
And a big enough town for his talents to grow；
And the least bit assistance in hoein' his row；
Jim Bowker； he said；
He'd filled the world full of the sound of his name；
An' clumb the top round in the ladder of fame；
It may have been so；
I dunno；
Jest so it might been；
Then ag'in …
But he had tarnal luck … everythin' went ag'in him；
The arrers er fortune they allus 'ud pin him；
So
