1. My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

2. In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

3. My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time, and had but one desire –
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place – not a frown upon its face,
And the hands never hung by its side;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

4. It rang an alarm in the dead of the night –
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight –
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side;
But it stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick),
His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick),
It stopp'd short – never to go again –
When the old man died.

It was a fascinating difference between how dad recited the poem and how he sang the song.   Another lesson in poetry recitation by example.  Stopped... short... never to go again when the old... man...died...

'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,

Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom, on the corner of the square;

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. " The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, sic 'em, if your stomach's equal to the work --

I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In face, he smiled as tho' he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd --

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;

Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call.

Give you a song? No, I can't do that; my singing days are past;

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.

Say! Give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do --

That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;

But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame --

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers -- there, that's the scheme -- and corking whiskey, too.

Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,

And but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood,

But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the `Chase of Fame.'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,

And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;

But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.

And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,

Said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile,

I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in you eye,

Come, laugh like me. 'Tis only babes and women that should cry

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad,

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroon floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.

~~Hugh Antoine D'Arcy

The lessons I learned while dad recited this poem... they are indelibly etched on my mind.  He explained the word balmy.  By the time he'd finished painting a picture I could feel the air about me.  He described a vagabond and defined badinage and stoical.  I learned what a sou was and why they said, "Filthy as a Turk".

Dad showed me how the bum flattered and cajoled his way into free drinks with the line, "To be in such good company would make a deacon proud."  And on the lesson went.  By the time Dad was done, I was enamoured not only with the poem but with learning to see between the lines of poetry in a fun way.  This wasn't trying to discern if "Ode to an Eyebrow" was really about early education and mind-sight.  This was seeing a story and the nuances behind it.  Just like in real life.  My love of poetry was formed by that section in Best Loved Poems of the American People entitled, "Poems That Tell a Story."

One of my most and least favorite occasions as a child were school programs.  I remember many but the preparation for one in particular stands out in my mind.  I was given the task of choosing a poem to recite for the program.  I dragged out our trusty Best Loved Poems of the American People  and flipped to the "Faith and Inspiration" section.  I found a poem that fit the bill of being "religious enough".  Pastor Phillips approved the poem and I memorized it.

I tried out my recitation on dad first.  Imagine this in a very VERY sing-song tone.

The Cross Was His Own

They borrowed a bed to lay His head
When Christ the Lord came down;
They borrowed the ass in the mountain pass
For him to ride to town;
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed the bread when the crowd He fed
On the grassy mountain side,
He borrowed the dish of broken fish
With which He satisfied.
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed the ship in which to sit
To teach the multitudes;
He borrowed a nest in which to rest----
He had never a home so rude;
But the crown that He wore and the Cross that He bore
Were His own----
The Cross was His own!

He borrowed a room on His way to the tomb
The passover lamb to eat:
They borrowed a cave for Him a grave,
They borrowed a winding sheet.
But the Crown that he wore and the Cross that He bore
Were his own----
The Cross was His own.

~~Unknown

Dad, bless his artistic, perfectionistic, ever-lovin' hearts, immediately gave me a lesson in how to recite poetry.  However, the way he did it wasn't to take the poem I'd just recited and correct each line. Instead, he flipped a few pages in my book and read, with proper emotion and inflection, The Face on the Barroom Floor.  I can still hear his voice, which now sounds to my mind very much like Christopher Plummer, "... ahh not one that daubed on bricks and wood, but an artist (with a slight roll on the "r") and for my age was rated pretty good."  I do not exaggerate when I say I developed a passion for excellent poetry recitation that night.  I spent hours in my room learning how to avoid awkward pauses and leave important ones.  I don't know if I ever thanked Dad for that.  If I didn't, Thank you dad.  It is something that still gives me great pleasure.

I think it's time to include poetry recitation in the kids' schooling.  Yep.