Armazindy Page #8

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

								

                Och, Nora! It’s hopin’
                Your windy ye’ll open
  And light up the night where the heart av me’s gropin’.

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE

  As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
    The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines,
  And smutted the lid of either eye,
    And turned and stared at the business signs;
      And the street-car driver stopped and beat
      His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street
      Till his eye on the long track reached the sky—
      As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

  As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
    A stranger petted a ragged child
  In the crowded walks, and she knew not why,
    But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled;
      And a boot-black thrilled with a pleasure strange,
      As a customer put back his change
      With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh,
      As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

  As the little white hearse went glimmering by—
    A man looked out of a window dim,
  And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry,
    For a dead child even were dear to him!
      And he thought of his empty life, and said:—
      “Loveless alive, and loveless dead—
      Nor wife nor child in earth or sky!”
      As the little white hearse went glimmering by.

WHAT REDRESS

  I pray you, do not use this thing
  For vengeance; but if questioning
  What wound, when dealt your humankind,
  Goes deepest,—surely he will find
  Who wrongs you, loving him no less—
  There’s nothing hurts like tenderness.

DREAMER, SAY

  Dreamer, say, will you dream for me
    A wild sweet dream of a foreign land,
  Whose border sips of a foaming sea
    With lips of coral and silver sand;
  Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps,
    Or lave themselves in the tearful mist
  The great wild wave of the breaker weeps
    O’er crags of opal and amethyst?

  Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream
    Of tropic shades in the lands of shine,
  Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream
    That flows like a rill of wasted wine,—
  Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green,
    Parry the shafts of the Indian sun
  Whose splintering vengeance falls between
    The reeds below where the waters run?

  Dreamer, say, will you dream of love
    That lives in a land of sweet perfume,
  Where the stars drip down from the skies above
    In molten spatters of bud and bloom?
  Where never the weary eyes are wet,
    And never a sob in the balmy air,
  And only the laugh of the paroquet
    Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

WHEN LIDE MARRIED HIM

  When Lide married him—w’y, she had to jes dee-fy
  The whole popilation!—But she never bat’ an eye!
  Her parents begged, and threatened—she must give him up—that he
  Wuz jes “a common drunkard!”—And he wuz, appearantly.—
              Swore they’d chase him off the place
              Ef he ever showed his face—
  Long after she’d eloped with him and married him fer shore!—
  When Lide married him, it wuz “Katy, bar the door!”

  When Lide married him—Well! she had to go and be
  A hired girl in town somewheres—while he tromped round to see
  What he could git that he could do,—you might say, jes sawed wood
  From door to door!—that’s what he done—’cause that wuz best he could!
              And the strangest thing, i jing!
              Wuz, he didn’t drink a thing,—
  But jes got down to bizness, like he someway wanted to,
  When Lide married him, like they warned her not to do!

  When Lide married him—er, ruther, had be’n married
  A little up’ards of a year—some feller come and carried
  That hired girl away with him—a ruther stylish feller
  In a bran-new green spring-wagon, with the wheels striped red and yeller:
              And he whispered, as they driv
              To’rds the country, “Now we’ll live!”—
  And somepin’ else she laughed to hear, though both her eyes wuz dim,
  ’Bout “trustin’ Love and Heav’n above, sence Lide married him!”

MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE

  O Soul of mine, look out and see
  My bride, my bride that is to be!—
    Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
  And draw aside futurity
  As one might draw a veil aside—
    And so unveil her where she stands
  Madonna-like and glorified—
    The queen of undiscovered lands
  Of love, to where she beckons me—
  My bride, my bride that is to be.

  The shadow of a willow-tree
    That wavers on a garden-wall
    In summer-time may never fall
  In attitude as gracefully
  As my fair bride that is to be;—
    Nor ever Autumn’s leaves of brown
  As lightly flutter to the lawn
  As fall her fairy-feet upon
    The path of love she loiters down.—
  O’er drops of dew she walks, and yet
  Not one may stain her sandal wet—
  Ay, she might dance upon the way
  Nor crush a single drop to spray,
  So airy-like she seems to me,—
  My bride, my bride that is to be.

  I know not if her eyes are light
  As summer skies or dark as night,—
  I only know that they are dim
    With mystery: In vain I peer
    To make their hidden meaning clear.
    While o’er their surface, like a tear
  That ripples to the silken brim,
  A look of longing seems to swim
    All worn and weary-like to me;
  And then, as suddenly, my sight
  Is blinded with a smile so bright,
    Through folded lids I still may see
    My bride, my bride that is to be.

  Her face is like a night of June
  Upon whose brow the crescent-moon
  Hangs pendent in a diadem
  Of stars, with envy lighting them.—
    And, like a wild cascade, her hair
  Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist,
  Till only through a gleaming mist
    I seem to see a Siren there,
  With lips of love and melody
    And open arms and heaving breast
    Wherein I fling myself to rest,
  The while my heart cries hopelessly
  For my fair bride that is to be.

  ...

  Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes!
  My bride hath need of no disguise.—
    But, rather, let her come to me
  In such a form as bent above
    My pillow when, in infancy,
  I knew not anything but love.—
  O let her come from out the lands
    Of Womanhood—not fairy isles,—
  And let her come with Woman’s hands
    And Woman’s eyes of tears and smiles,—
  With Woman’s hopefulness and grace
  Of patience lighting up her face:
  And let her diadem be wrought
  Of kindly deed and prayerful thought,
  That ever over all distress
  May beam the light of cheerfulness.—
  And let her feet be brave to fare
  The labyrinths of doubt and care,
  That, following, my own may find
  The path to Heaven God designed.—
  O let her come like this to me—
  My bride—my bride that is to be.

“RINGWORM FRANK”

  Jest Frank Reed’s his real name—though
    Boys all calls him “Ringworm Frank,”
  ’Cause he allus runs round so.—
    No man can’t tell where to bank
            Frank’ll be,
            Next you see
    Er hear of him!—Drat his melts!—
    That man’s allus somers else!

  We’re old pards.—But Frank he jest
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