Rare Poetry of O. Henry

Until I bought The Complete Works of O. Henry a few years ago, I never knew O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) wrote poetry to additionally writing his MANY well-acclaimed short stories. I reflected on one in particular, and thought to share a few. Though I will only type out a selected number, this consists of almost all of his poems.

The Pewee

In the hush of the drowsy afternoon,
When the very wind on the breast of June
Lies settled, and hot white tracery
Of the shattered sunlight filters free
Through the unstinted leaves to the pied cool sward;
On a dead tree branch sings the saddest bard
Of the birds that be;
'Tis the lone Pewee.
Its note is a sob, and its note is pitched
In a single key, like a soul bewitched
To a mournful minstrelsy.

"Peewee, Pewee," doth it ever cry;
A sad, sweet minor threnody
That threads the aisles of the dim hot grove
Like a tale of a wrong or a vanished love;
And the fancy comes that the wee dun bird
Perchance was a maid, and her heart was stirred
By some lover's rhyme
In a golden time,
And broke when the world turned false and cold;
And her dreams grew dark and her faith grew cold
In some fairy far-off clime.

And her soul crept into the Pewee's breast;
And forever she cries with a strange unrest
For something lost, in the afternoon;
For something missed from the lavish June;
For the heart that died in the long ago;
For the livelong pain that pierceth so:
Thus the Pewee cries,
While the evening lies
Steeped in the languorous still sunshine,
Rapt, to the leaf and the bough and the vine
Of some hopeless paradise.

---

Nothing To Say

"You can tell your paper," the great man said,
"I refused an interview.
I have nothing to say on the question, sir;
Nothing to say to you."

And then he talked till the sun went down
And the chickens went to roost;
And he seized the collar of the poor young man,
And never his hold he loosed.

And the sun went down and the moon came up,
And he talked till the dawn of day;
Though he said, "On this subject mentioned by you,
I have nothing whatever to say."

And down the reporter dropped to sleep
And flat on the floor he lay;
And the last he heard was the great man's words,
"I have nothing at all to say."

---

The Murderer

"I push my boat among the reeds;
I sit and stare about;
Queer slimy things crawl through the weeds,
Put to a sullen rout.
I paddle under cypress trees;
All fearfully I peer
Through oozy channels when the breeze
Comes rustling at my ear.

"The long moss hangs perpetually;
Gray scalps of buried years;
Blue crabs steal out and stare at me,
And seem to gauge my fears;
I start to hear the eel swim by;
I shudder when the crane
Strikes at his prey; I turn to fly
At drops of sudden rain.

"In every little cry of bird
I hear a tracking shout;
From every sodden leaf that's stirred
I see a face frown out;
My soul shakes when the water rat
Cowed by the blue snake flies;
Black knots from tree holes glimmer at
Me with accusive eyes.

"Through all the murky silence rings
A cry not born of earth;
And endless, deep, unechoing thing
That owns not human birth,
I see no colors in the sky
Save red, as blood is red;
I pray to God to still that cry
From pallid lips and dead.

"One spot in all that stagnant waste
I shun as moles shun light,
And turn my prow to make all haste
To fly before the night.
A poisonous mound hid from the sun,
Where crabs hold revelry;
Where eels and fishes feed upon
The Thing that once was He.

"At night I steal along the shore;
Within my hut I creep;
But awful stars blink through the door,
To hold me from my sleep.
The river gurgles like his throat,
In little choking coves,
And loudly dins that phantom note
From out the awful groves.

"I shout with laughter through the night:
I rage in greatest glee;
My fears all vanish with the light
Oh! splendid nights they be!
I see her weep; she calls his name;
He answers not, nor will;
My soul with joy is all aflame;
I laugh, and laugh, and thrill.

"I count her teardrops as they fall;
I flout my daytime fears;
I mumble thanks to God for all
These gibes and happy jeers.
But, when the warning dawn awakes,
Begins my wandering;
With stealthy strokes through tangled brakes,
A wasted, frightened thing.

---

Drop a Tear in This Slot

He who, when torrid Summer's sickly glare
Beat down upon the city's parched walls,
Sat him within a room scarce 8 by 9,
And, with tongue hanging out and panting breath,
Perspiring, pierced by pangs of prickly heat,
Wrote variations of the seaside joke
We all do know and always loved so well,
And of cool breezes and sweet girls that lay
In shady nooks, and pleasant windy coves
Anon
Will in that self-same room, with tattered quilt
Wrapped round him, and blue stiffening hands,
All shivering, fireless, pinched by winter's blasts,
Will hale us forth upon the rounds once more,
So that we may expect it not in vain,
The joke of how with curses deep and coarse
Papa puts up the pipe of parlor stove.
So ye
Who greet with tears this olden favorite,
Drop one for him who, though he strives to please
Must write about the things he never sees.

beautiful, I am glad you shared this with us. I didn't know much about his poems before

Out of boredom, I decided to type out the last of O. Henry's poems; this thread has compiled all of his collected poetry. On my first post, I typed the ones I thought most highly of, while this post consists of everything else.

Two Portraits

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
As o'er the keno board boldly he plays.
-That's Texas Bill.

Wild hair flying, in a matted maze,
Hand firm as iron, eyes all ablaze;
Bystanders timidly, breathlessly gaze,
As o'er the keyboard boldly he plays.
-That's Paderewski.

---

A Contribution

There came unto ye editor
A poet, pale and wan,
And at the table sate him down,
A roll within his hand.

Ye editor accepted it,
And thanked his lucky fates;
Ye poet had to yield it up
To a king full on eights.

---

The Old Farm

Just now when the whitening blossoms flare
On the apple trees and the growing grass
Creeps forth, and a balm is in the air;
With my lighted pipe and well-filled glass
Of the old farm I am dreaming,
And softly smiling, seeming
To see the bright sun beaming
Upon the old home farm.

And when I think how we milked the cows,
And hauled the hay from the meadows low;
And walked the furrows behind the plows,
And chopped the cotton to make it grow
I'd much rather be here dreaming
And smiling, only seeming
To see the hot sun gleaming
Upon the old home farm.

---

Vanity

A Poet sang so wondrous sweet
That toiling thousands paused and listened long;
So lofty, strong and noble were his themes,
It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.

He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man,
And bad him dry his foolish, shameful tears;
Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean,
And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.

The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound,
Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved;
And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears
And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.

---

The Lullaby Boy

The lullaby boy to the same old tune
Who abandons his drum and toys
For the purpose of dying in early June
Is the kind the public enjoys.

But, just for a change, please sing us a song,
Of the sore-toed boy that's fly,
And freckled and mean, and ugly, and bad,
And positively will not die.

---

Chanson de Bohéme

Lives of great men all remind us
Rose is red and violet's blue;
Johnny's got his gun behind us
'Cause the lamb loved Mary too.
-Robert Burns' "Hocht Time in the aud Town."

I'd rather write this, as bad as it is
Than be Will Shakespeare's shade;
I'd rather be known as an F.F.V.
Than in Mount Vernon laid.

I'd rather count ties from Denver to Troy
Then to head Booth's old programme;
I'd rather be special for the New York World
Than to lie with Abraham.

For there's stuff in the can, there's Dolly and Fan
And a hundred things to choose;
There's a kiss in the ring, and every old thing
That a real live man can use.

I'd rather fight flies in a boarding house
Than fill Napoleon's grave,
And snuggle up warm in my three slat bed
Than be André the brave.
I'd rather distribute a coat of red
One the town with a wad of dough
Just now, than to have my cognomen
Spelled "Michael Angelo."

For a small live man, if he's prompt on hand
When the good things pass around,
While the world's on tap has a better snap
Than a big man under ground.

---

Hard to Forget

I'm thinking to-night of the old farm, Ned,
And my heart is heavy and sad
As I think of the days that by have fled
Since I was a little lad.
There rises before me each spot I know
Of the old home in the dell,
The fields, and woods, and meadows below
That memory holds so well.

The city is pleasant and lively, Ned,
But what to us is its charm?
To-night all my thoughts are fixed, instead,
On our childhood's old home farm.
I know you are thinking the same, dear Ned,
With your head bowed on your arm,
For to-morrow at four we'll be jerked out of bed
To plow on that darned old farm.

---

Tamales

This is the Mexican
Don José Calderon
One of God's countrymen.
Land of the buzzard.
Cheap silver dollar, and
Cacti and murderers.
Why has he left his land?
Land of the lazy man,
Land of the pulque
Land of the bull fight,
Fleas and revolution.

This is the reason,
Hark to the wherefore;
Listen and tremble.
One of his ancestors,
Ancient and garlicky
Probably grandfather,
Died with his boots on.
Killed by the Texans,
Texans with big guns,
At San Jacinto.
Died without benefit
Of priest or clergy;
Died full of minie balls,
Mescal and pepper.

Don José Calderon
Heard of the tragedy.
Heard of it, thought of it,
Vowed a deep vengeance;
Vowed retribution
On the Americans,
Murderous gringos,
Especially Texans.
"Válgame Dios! qué
Ladrones, diablos,
Matadores, mentidores,
Carracos y perros,
Voy a matarles,
Con sólo mis manos,
Todaitas sin falta."
Thus swore the Hidalgo
Don José Calderon.
He hied him to Austin.
Bought him a basket,
A barrel of pepper,
And another of garlic;
Also a rope he bought.
That was his stock in trade;
Nothing else had he.
Nor was he rated in
Dun or in Bradstreet,
Though he meant business.
Don José Calderon,
Champion of Mexico,
Don José Calderon,
Seeker of vengeance.

With his stout lariat,
Then he caught swiftly
Tomcats and puppy dogs,
Caught them and cooked them,
Don José Calderon,
Vower of vengeance.
Now on the sidewalk
Sits the avenger
Selling tamales to
Innocent purchasers.
Dire is thy vengeance,
Oh, José Calderon,
Pitiless Nemesis
Fearful Redresser
Of the wrongs done to thy
Sainted grandfather.

Now the doomed Texans,
Rashly hilarious,
Buy of the deadly wares,
Buy and devour.
Rounders at midnight,
Citizens solid,
Bankers and newsboys,
Bootblacks and preachers,
Rashly importunate,
Courting destruction,
Buy and devour.
Beautiful maidens
Buy and devour,
Gentle society youths
Buy and devour.

Buy and devour
This things called Tamale;
Made of rat terrier,
Spitz dog and poodle,
Maltese cat, boarding house
Steak and red pepper,
Garlic and tallow,
Corn meal and shucks.
Buy without shame
Sit on store steps and eat,
Stand on the street and eat,
Ride on the cars and eat,
Strewing the shucks around
Over creation.

Dire is thy vengeance,
Don José Calderon,
For the slight thing we did
Killing thy grandfather.