The Music Box
- by Christopher Morley 26AT six-long ere the wintry dawn-
There sounded through the silent hall
To where I lay, with blankets drawn
Above my ears, a plaintive call.
The Urchin, in the eagerness
Of three years old, could not refrain;
Awake, he straightway yearned to dress
And frolic with his clockwork train.
I heard him with a sullen shock.
His sister, by her usual plan,
Had piped us aft at 3 o'clock-
I vowed to quench the little man.
I leaned above him, somewhat stern,
And spoke, I fear, with emphasis-
Ah, how much better, parents learn,
To seal one's sensure with a kiss!
Again the house was dark and still,
Again I lay in slumber's snare,
When down the hall I heard a trill,
A tiny, tinkling, tuneful air-
His music-box! His best-loved toy,
His crib companion every night;
And now he turned to it for joy
While waiting for the lagging light.
How clear, and how absurdly sad
Those tingling pricks of sound unrolled;
They chirped and quavered, as the lad
His lonely little heart consoled.
Columbia, the Ocean's Gem-
(Its only tune) shrilled sweet and faint.
He cranked the chimes, admiring them,
In vigil gay, without complaint.
The treble music piped and stirred,
The leaping air that was his bliss;
And, as I most contritely heard,
I thanked the all-unconscious Swiss!
The needled jets of melody
Rang slowlier and died away-
The Urchin slept; and it was I
Who lay and waited for the day.
The Old Swimmer
- by Christopher Morley 25I OFTEN wander on the beach
Where once, so brown of limb,
The biting air, the roaring surf
Summoned me to swim.
I see my old abundant youth
Whee combers lean and spill,
And though I taste the foam no more
Other swimmers will.
Oh, good exultant strength to meet
The arching wall of green,
To break the crystal, swirl, emerge
Dripping, taut, and clean.
To climb the moving hilly blue,
To dive in ecstasy
And feel the salty chill embrace
Arm and rib and knee.
What brave and vanished laughter then
And tingling thighs to run,
What warm and comfortable sands
Dreaming in the sun.
The crumbling water spreads in snow,
The surf is hissing still,
And though I kiss the salt no more,
Other swimmers will.
Poems by Christopher Morley, Christopher Morley's poems collection. Christopher Morley is a classical and famous poet (5 May 1890 - 28 March 1957 / Haverford, Pennslyvania). Share all poems of Christopher Morley.
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