The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll with an introduction by Alexander Woollcott and the illustrations by John Tenniel |
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The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll | ||
FOUR RIDDLES
[These consist of two Double Acrostics and two Charades.
No. I. was written at the request of some young friends, who had gone to a ball at an Oxford Commemoration—and also as a specimen of what might be done by making the Double Acrostic a connected poem instead of what it has hitherto been, a string of disjointed stanzas, on every conceivable subject, and about as interesting to read straight through as a page of a Cyclopedia. The first two stanzas describe the two main words, and each subsequent stanza one of the cross “lights.”
No. II. was written after seeing Miss Ellen Terry perform in the play of “Hamlet.” In this case the first stanza describes the two main words.
No. III. was written after seeing Miss Marion Terry perform in Mr. Gilbert's play of “Pygmalion and Galatea.” The three stanzas respectively describe “My First,” “My Second,” and “My Whole.”]
I
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered “Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all.”
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x2+7x+53
=11/3.
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!”
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging, filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.
A living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;
(His words half-drowned amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A tooth-ache in each spoonful.
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
To partners who would urge them overmuch,
A flat and yet decided negative—
Photographers love such.
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion—
Much like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
That should have warned us with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last—
“Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?”
It may mean much, but how is one to know?
He opes his mouth—yet out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
II
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
“Doubt that the stars are fire,” so runs his moan,
“Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!”
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leaden-footed hours.
III
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, well-a-day!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, well-a-day!
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
“Leave us not thus!” we fondly pray.
“We cannot let thee pass away!”
Ah, well-a-day!
IV
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest—
So plural-plural, I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, not often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.
A failure melancholy!
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men—
A mountain-summit, and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes—
Beginning, end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek her aid,
If you would read my riddle!
The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll | ||