The Whistler

A Poem by Anonymous

“You have heard,” said a youth to his sweetheart, who stood
     While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at daylight’s decline,
“You have heard of the Danish boy’s whistle of wood;
     I wish that the Danish boy’s whistle were mine!”

“And what would you do with it? tell me,” she said,
     While an arch smile play’d over her beautiful face.
“I would blow it,” he answered, “and then my fair maid
     Would fly to my side, and would there take her place.”

“Is that all you wish for? Why, that may be yours
     Without any magic,” the fair maiden cried;
“A favour so slight one’s good-nature secures;”
     And she playfully seated herself by his side.

“I would blow it again,” said the youth; “and the charm
     Would work so, that not even modesty’s check
Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm.”
     She smiled, and she laid her white arm round his neck.

“Yet once more I would blow, and the music divine
     Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss
You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine
     And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss.”

The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,
    “What a fool of yourself with the whistle you’d make!
For only consider how silly ‘twould be
    To sit there and whistle for what you might take.”


Two Fishers

A Poem by Anonymous

One morning when Spring was in her teens,
    A morn to a poet’s wishing,
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens,
    Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes,
    With my face at the sun-tan’s mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose,
    And her nose tipped, vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,
    And a hamper for lunching recesses;
She with the bait of her comely looks,
    And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike,
    Where the white pond-lilies teeter,
And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,
    And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,
    And dreamily watched and waited,
But the fish were cunning and would not rise,
    And the baiter alone was baited.

And when the time of departure came,
    My bag hung flat as a flounder;
But Bessie had neatly hooked her game,
    A hundred-and-fifty-pounder.

The Ultimate Joy

A Poem by Anonymous

I have felt the thrill of passion in the poet’s mystic book
And I’ve lingered in delight to catch the rhythm of the brook;
I’ve felt the ecstasy that comes when prima donnas reach
For upper C and hold it in a long, melodious screech.
And yet the charm of all these blissful memories fades away
As I think upon the fortune that befell the other day,
As I bring to recollection, with a joyous, wistful sigh,
That I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

Oh, eerie hour of drowsiness – ’twas like a fairy spell,
That respite from the terrors we have known, alas, so well,
The malevolent mosquito, with a limp and idle bill,
Hung supinely from the ceiling, all exhausted by his chill.
And the early morning sunbeam lost his customary leer
And brought a gracious greeting and a prophecy of cheer;
A generous affability reached up from earth to sky,
When I woke and felt the need of extra covers in July.

In every life there comes a time of happiness supreme,
When joy becomes reality and not a glittering dream.
‘Tis less appreciated, but it’s worth a great deal more
Than tides which taken at their flood lead on to fortune’s shore.
How vain is Art’s illusion, and how potent Nature’s sway
When once in kindly mood she deigns to waft our woes away!
And the memory will cheer me, though all other pleasures fly,
Of how I woke and needed extra covers in July.