Shapes of Clay

  The lights, too, are strangely unsteady,
    That lead from the street to the quay.
  I think they'll go out—and I'm ready
    To follow. Out there in the sea
    The fog-bell is calling to me.

A PARADOX.

  'If life were not worth having,' said the preacher,
  ''T would have in suicide one pleasant feature.'
  'An error,' said the pessimist, 'you're making:
  What's not worth having cannot be worth taking.'

FOR MERIT.

  To Parmentier Parisians raise
    A statue fine and large:
  He cooked potatoes fifty ways,
    Nor ever led a charge.
  'Palmam qui meruit'—the rest
    You knew as well as I;
  And best of all to him that best
    Of sayings will apply.
  Let meaner men the poet's bays
    Or warrior's medal wear;
  Who cooks potatoes fifty ways
    Shall bear the palm—de terre.

A BIT OF SCIENCE.

  What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream
    And he who dreams it is not overwise,
  If colors are vibration they but seem,
    And have no being. But if Tyndall lies,
    Why, come, then—photograph my lady's eyes.
  Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue,
    As on my own beclouded orbs they rest,
  To naught but vibratory motion's due,
    As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest.
  How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making
  In me so uncontrollable a shaking?

THE TABLES TURNED.

  Over the man the street car ran,
    And the driver did never grin.
  'O killer of men, pray tell me when
    Your laughter means to begin.
  'Ten years to a day I've observed you slay,
    And I never have missed before
  Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels
    Were spattered with human gore.
  'Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy,
    And why do you make no sign
  Of the merry mind that is dancing behind
    A solemner face than mine?'
  The driver replied: 'I would laugh till I cried
    If I had bisected you;
  But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain,
    'T is myself that I've cut in two.'

TO A DEJECTED POET.

  Thy gift, if that it be of God,
    Thou hast no warrant to appraise,
    Nor say: 'Here part, O Muse, our ways,
  The road too stony to be trod.'
  Not thine to call the labor hard
    And the reward inadequate.