Henry Cuyler Bunner

        I

I have a bookcase, which is what
Many much better men have not.
There are no books inside, for books,
I am afraid, might spoil its looks.
But I've three busts, all second-hand,
Upon the top. You understand
I could not put them underneath -
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

        II

Shake was a dramatist of note;
He lived by writing things to quote,
He long ago put on his shroud:
Some of his works are rather loud.
His bald-spot's dusty, I suppose.
I know there's dust upon his nose.
I'll have to give each nose a sheath -
Shake, Mulleary and Go-ethe.

                    III

Mulleary's line was quite the same;
He has more hair, but far less fame.
I would not from that fame retrench -
But he is fore...

Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
    To Arcady, to Arcady;
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
    Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree,
The tree the wind is blowing through,
    It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue
    Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh,...