Kansas University Weekly.
93
To-night was devoted to the discussion of poetry, and a pile of curious old books was within reach on the table. Scribe hunted thro' an index and then said "Here is a verse that has an Arnold ring:
A girl to love, a pipe to smoke. Enough to eat and drink;
A friend with whom to crack a joke
And one to make me think;
A book or two of simple prose,
A thousand more of rhyme.
No matter then how fast Time goes. I'll take no heed of Time."
"It has the sweet spirit of contentment all right, but it's doggerel," said Grubb. "It does not come up to the grace, form, and sweet contentment of our old French verse. Booth, you're good at French, recite it for us."
Then Booth repeated the verse that all loved so well and which was subsequently written on the walls of Buzzard's Roost. It runs as follows:
Allons, freres, bons vieux voleurs,
Doux vagabonds
Filons en fleur
Mes chers, mes bons,
Fumons philosophiquement
Promenons nous
Paisiblement
Rien faire est doux.
Everybody then settled into an easier attitude and puffed more contentedly. Then Two-Step found a Latin poem, but before reading it he said, "Boys, that's the only kind of poetry I like. That's why I flunked in my exam on the classics. Now here is the only Latin verse I care to remember. It is where Martial tells what makes a happy life."
Here Scribe interrupted him with, "It's a pity they did not smoke in those degenerate Roman days. Think what a magnificent ode Horace could have written on his pipe—but don't let me interrupt you."
"Well Martial goes on to say that a happy life comes from no scraps, no dress suits, no hustling; it is to 'feel your oats' and need no medicine, to live on bread and bean soup, to have chums—."
"Oh, give us the Latin; you kill all the poetry in it."
"Well here are his very words:
Lis numquam, toga rara, meus quieta,
Prudens simplicitas, pares amici.
Vires ingenuae, salubre corpus,
Convictus facilis, sine arte mensa,
Nox non ebria, sed soluta curis;
Non tristis torus, et tamen pudicus;
Somnus qui faciat breves tenebras:
Quod sis, esse velis nihilque malis;
Summum nec metuas diem, nec optas."
Booth make a note of this verse and said, "Boys I've come to the conclusion that the essence of poetry is the contentment or satisfaction that it imparts to us. And that very thing is lacking in Heine. Heine is a musical prodigy but his vein has a spirit of discontent, longing, and unfulfilled desire that leaves us a little unsatisfied. Any of his poems will illustrate this but here is a typical strain of Heine.
Madchen mit dem rothen Mundchen,
Mit den Anglein suss und klar,
Du mein liebes,kleines Madchen,
Deinner denk' ich immerdar.
But listen to the music in the last stanza.
Und die Lippen wollt' ich pressen
Deine kleine weisse Hand.
Und mit Thranen sie benetzen
Deine kleine weisse Hand."
It was Daub's turn now. He flipped the ragged leaves of an old book that had broken from its binding, and having found a poem, he shook the old leaves into place as one might gather together a scattered pack of cards, and arose to express his theory of poetry.
"A true poem should be of such a nature that we should carry from it what we bring to it. It should be a chord of music that awakens in our imagination a thousand responsive harmonies that echoe and re-echoe, dying in ever changing cadence till the utmost soul depths tingle with music.
"But oh so many poems are prison bars to the fancy. They are soulless, accurately drawn geometrical designs that hold down the wings of fancy by their heavy earthliness—their bald reality—their definitely marked proportions.
A poem must produce 'mind echoes' or it is unworthy of the name. Why does a beautiful woman impress us so? It is because of the mind echoes that she awakens in us. And a true poet will instinctively aim to strike a chord