Tag Archives: Public Domain

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Sea Longing by Sara Teasdale

A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,
Tho’ I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea’s eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.

by SARA TEASDALE (1884-1933)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // A Valentine [From A Very Little Boy To A Very Little Girl] by Arthur Macy

This is a valentine for you.
Mother made it. She’s real smart,
I told her that I loved you true
And you were my sweetheart.

And then she smiled, and then she winked,
And then she said to father,
“Beginning young!” and then he thinked,
And then he said, “Well, rather.”

Then mother’s eyes began to shine,
And then she made this valentine:
“If you love me as I love you,
No knife shall cut our love in two,”
And father laughed and said, “How new!”
And then he said, “It’s time for bed.”

So, when I’d said my prayers,
Mother came running up the stairs
And told me I might send the rhymes,
And then she kissed me lots of times.
Then I turned over to the wall
And cried about you, and – that’s all.

by ARTHUR MACY (1842-1904)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // St. Anthony’s Sermon To The Fishes by Abraham a Sancta-Clara

Saint Anthony at church
Was left in the lurch,
So he went to the ditches
And preached to the fishes.
They wriggled their tails,
In the sun glanced their scales.

The carps, with their spawn,
Are all thither drawn;
Have opened their jaws,
Eager for each clause.
No sermon beside
Had the carps so edified.

Sharp-snouted pikes,
Who keep fighting like tikes,
Now swam up harmonious
To hear Saint Antonius.
No sermon beside
Had the pikes so edified.

And that very odd fish,
Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,
The stock-fish, I mean,
At the sermon was seen.
No sermon beside
Had the cods so edified.

Good eels and sturgeon,
Which aldermen gorge on,
Went out of their way
To hear preaching that day.
No sermon beside
Had the eels so edified.

Crabs and turtles also,
Who always move low,
Made haste from the bottom
As if the devil had got ’em.
No sermon beside
The crabs so edified.

Fish great and fish small,
Lords, lackeys, and all,
Each looked at the preacher
Like a reasonable creature.
At God’s word,
They Anthony heard.

The sermon now ended,
Each turned and descended;
The pikes went on stealing,
The eels went on eeling.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

The crabs are backsliders,
The stock-fish thick-siders,
The carps are sharp-set,
All the sermon forget.
Much delighted were they,
But preferred the old way.

by ABRAHAM A SANCTA-CLARA (1644-1709)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dead Child. by Charles Hamilton Musgrove

Life to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.

Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once–we know not why–
God stopped th’ enchanting melody.

Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once–we know not why–
God put the wondrous volume by.

by CHARLES HAMILTON MUSGROVE (1871-1926)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Tourist. by Hattie Howard

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,
And prove the touring season actively begun;
His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,
For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand –
The fool-ish one!

By caravan and car, from country and from town,
A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;
Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,
Impossible it is to curb or scare or drown
The tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,
To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,
The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,
And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute –
To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,
From high society’s luxurious stately homes,
From lounging places by the park or promenade,
From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,
The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,
To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;
To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,
To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,
The tourist goes.

For Summer’s fingers all the land have richly dressed,
Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,
And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,
Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nest
For ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania – is it love
Of wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?
Is it to be in fashion, and to others prove
One’s social standing, that impels the madness of
The tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,
Importunate, but powerless response to bring;
Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere –
They only say it is their rest-time, outing, their
Vacationing.

So is the world’s eccentric round of joy complete
When happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,
His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeat
To impecunious, luckless multitudes who greet
The tourist home.

by HATTIE HOWARD (1860-1920)
Public Domain Poetry