Armazindy Page #7

James Whitcomb Riley poems book published in the 1894 book Armazindy and received very negative reviews that referred to poems like "The Little Dog-Woggy" and "Jargon-Jingle" as "drivel" and to Riley as a "worn out genius". Most of his growing number of critics suggested that he ignored the quality of the poems for the sake of making money.

• Poetry

								

  And the earth, as the stress drew near it,
    Quailed as in mute affright;
  The grass in the green fields quivered—
    The waves of the smitten brook
  Chillily shuddered and shivered,
    And the reeds bowed down and shook.

  Like a sorrowful miserere
    It sobbed, and it blew and blew,
  Till the leaves on the trees looked weary,
    And my prayers were weary, too;
  And then, like the sunshine’s glimmer
    That failed in the awful strain,
  All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer
    In a spatter of spiteful rain.

MY HENRY

  He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’
  Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’-
  Like, and ruther still-appearin’—
  Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’
          Whether school helt out er not—
          That’s my Henry, to a dot!

  Allus kindo’ liked him—whether
  Childern, er growed-up together!
  Fifteen year’ ago and better,
  ’Fore he ever knowed a letter,
          Run acrosst the little fool
          In my Primer-class at school.

  When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’,
  He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’
  Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n
  Likely, on the stove; er borin’
          Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—
          Nothin’ that boy wouldn’t resk!

  But, somehow, as I was goin’
  On to say, he seemed so knowin’,
  Other ways, and cute and cunnin’—
  Allus wuz a notion runnin’
          Thue my giddy, fool-head he
          Jes had be’n cut out fer me!

  Don’t go much on prophesyin’,
  But last night whilse I wuz fryin’
  Supper, with that man a-pitchin’
  Little Marthy round the kitchen,
          Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes
          Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”

THE SONG I NEVER SING

  As when in dreams we sometimes hear
    A melody so faint and fine
  And musically sweet and clear,
  It flavors all the atmosphere
    With harmony divine,—
      So, often in my waking dreams,
      I hear a melody that seems
      Like fairy voices whispering
      To me the song I never sing.

  Sometimes when brooding o’er the years
    My lavish youth has thrown away—
  When all the glowing past appears
  But as a mirage that my tears
    Have crumbled to decay,—
      I thrill to find the ache and pain
      Of my remorse is stilled again,
      As, forward bent and listening,
      I hear the song I never sing.

  A murmuring of rhythmic words,
    Adrift on tunes whose currents flow
  Melodious with the trill of birds,
  And far-off lowing of the herds
    In lands of long ago;
      And every sound the truant loves
      Comes to me like the coo of doves
      When first in blooming fields of Spring
      I heard the song I never sing.

  The echoes of old voices, wound
    In limpid streams of laughter where
  The river Time runs bubble-crowned,
  And giddy eddies ripple round
    The lilies growing there;
      Where roses, bending o’er the brink,
      Drain their own kisses as they drink,
      And ivies climb and twine and cling
      About the song I never sing.

  An ocean-surge of sound that falls
    As though a tide of heavenly art
  Had tempested the gleaming halls
  And crested o’er the golden walls
    In showers on my heart....
      Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes
      Uplifted toward the alien skies,
      Forgetting every earthly thing,
      I hear the song I never sing.

  O nameless lay, sing clear and strong,
    Pour down thy melody divine
  Till purifying floods of song
  Have washed away the stains of wrong
    That dim this soul of mine!
      O woo me near and nearer thee,
      Till my glad lips may catch the key,
      And, with a voice unwavering,
      Join in the song I never sing.

TO EDGAR WILSON NYE

  O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship
    What liberty is mine—what sweet release
    From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
  Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip
  That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
    That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase
    Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease
  To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip
  Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret
    Of all distress is stilled—no syllable
  Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet
    My teeming lids save those that leap to tell
  Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet
    Only because thou jokest overwell.

LITTLE DAVID

  The mother of the little boy that sleeps
  Has blest assurance, even as she weeps:
  She knows her little boy has now no pain—
  No further ache, in body, heart or brain;
  All sorrow is lulled for him—all distress
  Passed into utter peace and restfulness.—
  All health that heretofore has been denied—
  All happiness, all hope, and all beside
  Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps
  In voiceless joy—the little boy that sleeps.

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE

  Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
  The land that the Lord’s love rests upon;
  Where one may rely on the friends he meets,
  And the smiles that greet him along the streets:
  Where the mother that left you years ago
  Will lift the hands that were folded so,
  And put them about you, with all the love
  And tenderness you are dreaming of.

  Out of the hitherwhere into the YON—
  Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,—
  Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you,
  Will laugh again as he used to do,
  Running to meet you, with such a face
  As lights like a moon the wondrous place
  Where God is living, and glad to live,
  Since He is the Master and may forgive.

  Out of the hitherwhere into the YON!—
  Stay the hopes we are leaning on—
  You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
  Looking down from the far-away skies,—
  Smile upon us, and reach and take
  Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.—
  And so Amen,—for our all seems gone
  Out of the hitherwhere into the YON.

RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES

  Rabbit in the cross-ties.—
    Punch him out—quick!
  Git a twister on him
    With a long prong stick.
  Watch him on the south side—
    Watch him on the—Hi!—
  There he goes! Sic him, Tige!
    Yi! Yi!! Yi!!!

SERENADE—TO NORA

                The moonlight is failin’—
                The sad stars are palin’—
  The black wings av night are a-dhroopin’ an’ trailin’;
                The wind’s miserere
                Sounds lonesome an’ dreary;
  The katydid’s dumb an’ the nightingale’s weary.

                Troth, Nora! I’m wadin’
                The grass an’ paradin’
  The dews at your dure, wid my swate serenadin’,
                Alone and forsaken,
                Whilst you’re never wakin’
  To tell me you’re wid me an’ I am mistaken!

                Don’t think that my singin’
                It’s wrong to be flingin’
  Forninst av the dreams that the Angels are bringin’;
                For if your pure spirit
                Might waken and hear it,
  You’d never be draamin’ the Saints could come near it!

                Then lave off your slaapin’—
                The pulse av me’s laapin’
  To have the two eyes av yez down on me paapin’.
								Rate this book:3.0 / 1 vote