Comes little lady, a book in hand, A light in her eyes that I understand, And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze That sweeps across the uncharted seas. She gives me the book, and her word of praise A ton of critical thought outweighs. “I’ve finished it, daddie!”—a sigh thereat. “Are there any more books in the world like that?” “I’ve finished it, daddie!”—a sigh thereat. “Are there any more books in the world like that?” No, little lady. I grieve to say That of all the books in the world to-day There’s not another that’s quite the same As this magic book with the magic name. Volumes there be that are pure delight, Ancient and yellowed or new and bright; But—little and thin, or big and fat— There are no more books in the world like that. And what, little lady, would I not give For the wonderful world in which you live! What have I garnered one-half as true As the tales Titania whispers you? Ah, late we learn that the only truth Was that which we found in the Book of Youth. Profitless others, and stale, and flat;— There are no more books in the world like that. [Pg 22] [Pg 22] A BALLADE OF SPRING’S UNREST Up in the woodland where Spring Comes as a laggard, the breeze Whispers the pines that the King, Fallen, has yielded the keys To his White Palace and flees Northward o’er mountain and dale. Speed then the hour that frees! Ho, for the pack and the trail! Northward my fancy takes wing, Restless am I, ill at ease. Pleasures the city can bring Lose now their power to please. Barren, all barren, are these, Town life’s a tedious tale; That cup is drained to the lees— Ho, for the pack and the trail! Ho, for the morning I sling Pack at my back, and with knees Brushing a thoroughfare, fling Into the green mysteries: One with the birds and the bees, One with the squirrel and quail, Night, and the stream’s melodies— Ho, for the pack and the trail! [Pg 23] L’Envoi [Pg 23] L’Envoi Pictures and music and teas, Theaters—books even—stale. Ho, for the smell of the trees! Ho, for the pack and the trail!
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