Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton collected and arranged by H. Augusta Dodge |
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[Lines on a Fly-leaf] |
 | Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton |  |
[Lines on a Fly-leaf]
NOTE
Too sharply nibbed for thin-skinned men,
That her keen arrows search and try
The armor joints of dignity,
And, though alone for error meant,
Sing through the air irreverent.
To weigh and doubt and peck at flaws,
Or waste my pity when some fool
Provokes her measureless ridicule.”
(The next volume of his poetry contained the whole poem under the title “Lines on a Fly-leaf,” which called out the following repartee:)
A little fly
Folding her wings
On a fly-leaf
Brief,
Suddenly sings
Exclamation-points and things
To see a poet
Painting her picture so that all the world will know it
And receive it—
But won't more than half believe it;
For the beauty dear is all in your eyes
And doesn't belong to flies
Of my size!
Paint a wasp alighting on it;
Paint a devil's darning needle:
And don't wheedle
All the good folk into spying
And trying
To find where I am lying
Underneath the glory
Of your story,
Of a hornet with a sting,
They would say with quick ha- ha- ing
“On my word, 'tis just the thing!”
The wicked little Quaker,
To go and make her
Break her
Heart, talking about faults
When thee know I haven't any—
Or not many—
Nothing to hurt you,
Only just enough to keep
Me from dissolving into a tasteless pap of virtue—
Or to be loved with holy fervor
By the New York Observer,
And the apostles of that shoddy
Sort of gospel now springing up from Oregon to Passamaquoddy,
Which teaches with a din,
Very pleasant to the din—ner
Not to save the world from sin,
But to fill the world with sinners!
Little friend, speak the truth—
Thy love for me such is
Thee put in those touches
To quiet thy conscience, not speak thy conviction,
For thee know, heart and hand
I'm as good as thee can stand!
Am I not as sweet as maple molasses
When thee scold me for fingering thy brasses?
And did not the poet say of yore,
Angels could no more?
Ah, would not angels pity her
To be scolded by the “Saintly Whittier”?
That's Mrs. Hannaford—
And cannot a man afford
When pulpits preach him
And the women screech him
Up for a saint,
Not to throw stones at them that—aint?
One whole sheet of paper has come to an end,
Shall stop her buzzing about my ears.
She folds her wings, she droops her eyes
And feels with an innermost glad surprise
The amber glory in which she lies—
The joy and beauty and wonder wrought
In the golden glow of a poet's thought.
Imagine Whittier and me sitting together one whole day and two evenings, talking all the time. One of the brass knobs on the Franklin stove was loose and came off in my hand. I turned it over and remarked upon its brightness. He said, “Now doesn't thee know that thee is making work?” “How?” I asked, “Why, destroying the brightness by handling it.” I rubbed it with my handkerchief and asked the housekeeper if I had made her any work. “Oh,” she said, “you make me no work. Mr. Whittier takes care of the brasses himself.” ... The little balls of the trimming of my dress kept coming off and were lying around on the floor. I picked up one just as I was coming away and said, “There, I will give thee that as a keepsake.” He laughed, and said he had two in his pocket already! He told some company in the evening that I had talked so much it made him hoarse.— Extract from Letter.
| Chips, fragments and vestiges by Gail Hamilton | |