 | English Roses |  |
FIN-DE-SIECLE BABY.
Bring no more bottles,
Nurse, they trouble me;
I thirst for higher food like Aristotle's,
And vaster thoughts of that great world to be;
I weary too of bibs and cushioned cribs;
The inheritance I ask, I would be free.
No foolish rhymes, but Noble's last new sonnet,
And then the “Times”—not mother's Paris bonnet.
Let's speak of politics, I am on fire
For some good burning question;
I brook no baubles here, I do aspire
To more than mere digestion.
Nurse, they trouble me;
I thirst for higher food like Aristotle's,
And vaster thoughts of that great world to be;
I weary too of bibs and cushioned cribs;
The inheritance I ask, I would be free.
No foolish rhymes, but Noble's last new sonnet,
And then the “Times”—not mother's Paris bonnet.
Let's speak of politics, I am on fire
For some good burning question;
I brook no baubles here, I do aspire
To more than mere digestion.
Long clothes and chrism,
Powder, all are vain,
Out-grown by us—a pure anachronism;
I'm centuries old (not weeks) and bear the pain;
Born to the people's woe, and endless throe,
To suffer for the world and not complain.
No empty talk, I have no silly season,
And I could walk too if there were a reason;
But it's undignified to romp and run
Just as the vulgar rabble,
I choose to lie and ponder in the sun
And let the others babble.
Powder, all are vain,
Out-grown by us—a pure anachronism;
I'm centuries old (not weeks) and bear the pain;
Born to the people's woe, and endless throe,
To suffer for the world and not complain.
No empty talk, I have no silly season,
And I could walk too if there were a reason;
But it's undignified to romp and run
315
I choose to lie and ponder in the sun
And let the others babble.
Problems of ages,
Nurse, devolve at last
On me, and I must step on broader stages
Than those before me who have played and past;
Yes, grand solutions now do pale my brow,
And with the care my life is overcast.
I heed no ill; away with pap and ladle!
For I must fill a throne, and not a cradle.
And what is Truth? That seems the vital point
For souls like mine to settle,
When all the earth is sadly out of joint—
Not how to boil a kettle.
Nurse, devolve at last
On me, and I must step on broader stages
Than those before me who have played and past;
Yes, grand solutions now do pale my brow,
And with the care my life is overcast.
I heed no ill; away with pap and ladle!
For I must fill a throne, and not a cradle.
And what is Truth? That seems the vital point
For souls like mine to settle,
When all the earth is sadly out of joint—
Not how to boil a kettle.
Look at our leaders,
Waiting to be led
By luck or chance, at most but special pleaders
Of any cause that gives them power or bread!
When here is one who can evolve a plan,
And guide them into port and has a head.
O give me space, I'll move this ancient order
Cramped by its place and find an ample border;
You and my parents understand me not
And tease with toys and feigning,
To starve my genius in a stupid cot—
I want a sphere for reigning.
Waiting to be led
By luck or chance, at most but special pleaders
Of any cause that gives them power or bread!
When here is one who can evolve a plan,
And guide them into port and has a head.
O give me space, I'll move this ancient order
Cramped by its place and find an ample border;
You and my parents understand me not
And tease with toys and feigning,
To starve my genius in a stupid cot—
I want a sphere for reigning.
| English Roses | |