Gently, while the drenching dribble
    Courses down my sweltered form,
  I am basking like a sybil,
    Lazy, languorous and warm. 
  I am unambitious, flaccid,
    Well content to drowse and dream: 
  How I hate life’s bitter acid—­
    Leave me here to stew and steam. 
  Underneath this jet so torrid
    I forget the world’s sad wrath: 
  O activity is horrid! 
    Leave me in my shower-bath!

COLD WATER

  But when I turn the crank
  O Zeus! 
  A silver ecstasy thrills me! 
  I caper and slap my chilled thighs,
  I plan to make a card index of all my ideas
  And feel like an efficiency expert. 
  I tweak Fate by the nose
  And know I could succeed in anything. 
  I throw up my head
  And glut myself with icy splatter... 
  To-day I will really
  Begin my career!

ON DEDICATING A NEW TEAPOT

  Boiling water now is poured,
    Pouches filled with fresh tobacco,
  Round the hospitable board
    Fragrant steams Ceylon or Pekoe.

  Bread and butter is cut thin,
    Cream and sugar, yes, bring them on;
  Ginger cookies in their tin,
    And the dainty slice of lemon.

  Let the marmalade be brought,
    Buns of cinnamon adhesive;
  And, to catch the leaves, you ought
    To be sure to have the tea-sieve.

  But, before the cups be filled—­
    Cups that cause no ebriation—­
  Let a genial wish be willed
    Just by way of dedication.

  Here’s your fortune, gentle pot: 
    To our thirst you offer slakeage;
  Bright blue china, may I not
    Hope no maid will cause you breakage.

  Kindest ministrant to man,
    Long be jocund years before you,
  And no meaner fortune than
    Helen’s gracious hand to pour you!

THE UNFORGIVABLE SYNTAX

  A certain young man never knew
  Just when to say whom and when who;
    “The question of choosing,”
    He said, “is confusing;
  I wonder if which wouldn’t do?”

  Nothing is so illegitimate
  As a noun when his verbs do not fit him; it
    Makes him disturbed
    If not properly verbed—­
  If he asks for the plural, why git him it!

  Lie and lay offer slips to the pen
  That have bothered most excellent men: 
    You can say that you lay
    In bed—­yesterday;
  If you do it to-day, you’re a hen!

  A person we met at a play
  Was cruel to pronouns all day: 
    She would frequently cry
    “Between you and I,
  If only us girls had our way—!”

VISITING POETS

We were giving a young English poet a taste of Philadelphia, trying to show him one or two of the simple beauties that make life agreeable to us.  Having just been photographed, he was in high good humor.