Grackle, Grackle on your tree, There's something wrong to-day, In the moonlight, in the quiet evening, You will rise and croak and fly away; Oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight (And that's all right) But you have never criticised a single song (And that's all wrong) Lo, would you add despair unto despair? Do you not care That all these lesser children of the Muse Shall sing to you exactly as they choose? You are ungrateful, Fowl. I wrote a poem, Once, in the middle of August, intending to show 'em That you should not Be shot: What saw I then, what heard? Multitudes--multitudes, under the tree they stirred, And with too many a broken note and wheeze They sang what each did please.... And Thou, O bird of emeraldine beak and brow, Thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, Grackle! _Henry van Dyke_ (Who, although for different reasons, did not care for the Grackle either.) THE ROILING OF HENRY (A Song of the Grating Outdoors) Bird, thou art not a Veery, Nor yet a Yellowthroat, Ne'erless, I knew thy gentle song, Long, long e'er I could vote; Thou art not a Blue Flower, Nor e'en a real Blue Bird; Yet there's a moral high and pure In all thy likings heard: "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_" The noble tow'rs of Princeton Hear high thy pensive trill, And eke my ear has heard thee The while I fished the rill; Thy note rings out at daybreak Before I rise to toil; Thou counselest Persistence; Thy song no stone can spoil; "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_" Yet, Bird, there is a limit To all I've undergone; From five o'clock till five o'clock Thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; I cannot get my work done ... I give thee, Bird, advice; If thou wouldst save thy skin alive, Let me not warn thee twice, "_Grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _Go on and ne'er look back!_" _Cale Young Rice_ (Who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and could not get it off his mind.) PANTINGS Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! Gents' immanent furnishings! On a mystic tide I ride, I ride, Of the clothes of a million springs! I take the train for the suburbs Or I sweep from Pole to Pole, But where is the window that holds them not, Gents' furnishings of my soul! Pantings, Pantings, Pantings! Shirtings and coatings too! How can I think of mere birds, nor blink In the Cosmic Hullaballoo? The hot world throbs with Immenseness, The Voidness plunks in the Void, And all of it doubtless has something to do With Employer and Unemployed!