A NOVICE
Dollie Radford 1858-1920

What is it, in these latter days,
Transfigures my domestic ways,
And round me, as a halo, plays?
My cigarette.

For me so daintily prepared,
No modern skill, or perfume, spared,
What would have happened had I dared
To pass it yet?

What else could lighten times of woe,
When some one says "I told you so,"
When all the servants, in a row,
Give notices?

When the great family affairs
Demand the most gigantic cares,
And one is very ill upstairs,
With poultices?

What else could ease my aching head,
When, though I long to be in bed,
I settle steadily instead
To my "accounts?"

And while the house is slumbering,
Go over them like anything,
And find them ever varying,
In their amounts!

Ah yes, the cook may spoil the broth,
The cream of life resolve to froth,
I cannot now, though very wroth,
Distracted be;

For as the smoke curls blue and thin
From my own lips, I first begin
To bathe my tired spirit in
Philosophy.

And sweetest healing on her pours,
Once more into the world she soars,
And sees it full of open doors,
And helping hands.

In spite of those who, knocking, stay
At sullen portals day by day,
And weary at the long delay
To their demands.

The promised epoch, like a star,
Shines very bright and very far,
But nothing shall its lustre mar,
Though distant yet.

If I, in vain, must sit and wait,
To realize our future state,
I shall not be disconsolate,
My cigarette!

-o=0=o-

AFTON WATER
Robert Burns 1759-96

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Evening sweeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

-o=0=o-

A MINOR BIRD
Robert Frost 1874-1963

I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.

-o=0=o-

DADDY  FELL INTO THE POND
Alfred Noyes 1880-1958

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!

-o=0=o-

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