Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1910 (Heft 30))

THE LOVERS OF ORELAY
A Ballade to George Moore
He met me on Fifth Avenue—
I’d known the fellow long ago—
His face was round, his eye was blue,
His garb precise, his speech was slow;
He said “You’ve travelled to and fro,
Been much in foreign parts they say;
You’ve read George Moore; you ought to know,
Is there a town called Orelay ?”
“Dear God!” I cried, “As if I knew!”
And then “Thank God we’ve met, for lo
I’ll make a ballade out of you”
At which the red blood mounted slow
And he turned touchily, as though
He thought me rude, and went his way.
He’s asking yet, as like as no,
“Is there a town called Orelay ?”
Ah, plodding souls, who still pursue
The pot of gold beneath the bow!
For whom alone those truths are true
That you can touch to prove them so!
Who fill the lamp, but miss the glow;
Whose beauty’s feet are feet of clay;
Who ask (we knew you’d want to know)
“Is there a town called Orelay ?”
And if there were ? In Xanadu,
Near Alph the sacred river’s flow,
Would you go feed on honey-dew
If one should tell you how to go ?
Peace, little souls! What price H-O ?
And Borden’s Milk ? Leave Yea and Nay,
Nor ask your hearts (that do not know)
“Is there a town called Orelay?”
L’Envoi.
Geographers, all hail to you
Whose tinted maps so neatly show
The latitude of Timbuctoo,
The lanes wheredown the Trade Winds blow,
The metes and bounds of Mexico!
All hail, and yet forgive us, pray,
Who do not come to you to know
“Zj there a town called Orelay ?”
J. B. Kerfoot

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