IN
PHILISTIA
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OF all
the places on the map,
Some queer and others queerer,
Arcadia is dear to me,
Philistia is dearer.
There dwell the few who never knew
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5 |
The
pangs of heavenly hunger,
As fresh and fair and fond and frail
As when the world was younger.
If there is any sweeter sound
Than bobolinks or thrushes,
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10 |
It is
the frou-frou of their silks—
The roll of their barouches.
I love them even when they’re good,
As well as when they’re sinners—
When they are sad and worldly wise
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| And
when they are beginners.
(I say I do; of course the fact,
For better or for worse, is,
My unerratic life denies
My too erotic verses.)
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I dote upon their waywardness,
Their foibles and their follies.
If there’s a madder pate than Di’s,
Perhaps it may be Dolly’s.
They have no "problems" to discuss,
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No "theories"
to discover;
They are not "new"; and I—I am
Their very grateful lover.
I care not if their minds confuse
Alastor with Aladdin;
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30 |
And
Cimabue is far less
To them than Chimmie Fadden.
They never heard of William Blake,
Nor saw a Botticelli;
Yet one is, "Yours till death, Louise,"
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35 |
| And
one, "Your loving Nelly."
They never tease me for my views,
Nor tax me with my grammar;
Nor test me on the latest news,
Until I have to stammer.
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40 |
They never talk about their "moods,"
They never know they have them;
The world is good enough for them,
And that is why I love them.
They never puzzle me with Greek,
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45 |
Nor
drive me mad with Ibsen;
Yet over forms as fair as Eve’s
They wear the gowns of Gibson. |
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