She trod among the untrodden maze Of Cubists on a spree; A Nude whom there were none to praise, And very few could see. A violet 'neath a mossy stone, Quite hidden from the eye, Is far more easy to discern Than that same Nude to spy. She lived unseen. Though some few fakes Pretended her to see; But if she's on the stairs, it makes No difference to me.

Mr. Longfellow fairly let himself go:

The picture's done! And the staircase Falls like the crash of night. And the Nude is wafted downward Like a catapult in flight. There's a feeling of strange emotion That is not akin to art; And resembles a picture only As a Tartar resembles a tart. Such art has power to rouse Our laughter at any time, And comes like electrocution That follows after crime.

And Mr. Bunner's poetic gem has a charm all its own:

It was an old, old, old, old lady, On a staircase at half-past three; And the way she was painted together Was beautiful for to see. She wasn't visible any, And the staircase, no more was he; For it was a Cubist picture With a feeling of deep skewgee. 'Twas a symbol of soul expression, Though you'd never have known it to be! That emotional old, old lady On a staircase at half-past three.

Mr. Wordsworth treated the subject boldly, thus:

She was a phantom of a fright When first she burst upon my sight; A Cubist apparition meant To symbolize a Nude's descent. Her eyes like soft-shell crabs aflare Like loads of brick her dusky hair; And all things else about her drawn As by one coming home at dawn. A fearsome shape, an image fierce, To haunt, to startle, and to pierce. I saw her upon nearer view, Like a symbolic oyster stew; A countenance in which did meet The paving blocks from some old street; The staircase, floating fancy-free, With steps of Cubic liberty. A perfect lady, nobly built, Constructed like a crazy quilt. Or a volcano on a spree, Or herd of elephants at tea. The staircase, by a bombshell wrecked, With something of a burst effect.

What do you think of A. Dobson's triolet:

Oh, see the Nude Descend the Stair! Fear not, oh, prude, To see the Nude; For by the rood, She isn't there! Oh, see the Nude Descend the Stair!

Of course, no one is a sweeter poetess than Miss A.A. Proctor:

Seated one day at my easel, I was hungry and somewhat faint, And my fingers wandered idly Over the tubes of paint. I know not what I was drawing, Or what I was painting there, But I splotched a Cubic Symbol! Like a Nude Descending a Stair! It flooded the crimson canvas With the gush of a broken dam; And it lay in sticky masses Like upset gooseberry jam. It rioted blazing color, Like love ballyragging strife; It seemed the loquacious echo Of our discordant wife. It linked all Futurist meanings Into one perfect cube, And broke itself up into facets Like a wreck in a Hudson Tube. I seek, but I seek it vainly, That vast, symbolic line, That came from the head of the staircase And entered into mine. It may be that Pab Picasso Has painted the thing before, And it may be that only in Bedlam I shall paint that Nude some more.

And now the admirers of Mr. Poe will enjoy this:

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom made of squares, That a Lady lived whom you may know As the Nude Descending the Stairs, And the lady lived with no other home, But those racketty-packetty stairs! And the moon never beams Without jarring the seams Of those cubic triangular stairs; And the earth never quakes Without bringing the shakes To those wigglety-wagglety stairs. And neither the artists in circles above, Or critics who view the débris, Can ever dissever the Nude from the Stairs, For both are so hobble-de-gee, So hobble-de-wobble-de-gee!

Mr. A. Tennyson is quite frank in his opinions, and it would seem that he does not altogether admire the lady:

Lady Clara Stair de Stair, Of me you shall not win renown. You thought to charm the country's heart As you the staircase tumbled down. At me you splashed; but unabashed, I saw you in your paint attired; You daughter of a hundred cubes, You are not one to be desired! Lady Clara Stair de Stair, I care not for these wild études; A simple Titian in a frame Is worth a hundred Staircase Nudes. Howe'er it be, it seems to me It isn't noble to be fools; Fine arts are more than Futurists, And simple lines than Cubist Schools.

At one meeting of The Re-Echo Club, it chanced that there was no one present but Omar Khayyam. He had mistaken the date, and came to the clubroom, only to find it empty. Absent-mindedly, he picked up paper and pen, and, on leaving, left behind these additional Rubáiyát:

RUBÁIYÁT OF WALL STREET

Now the New Hope reviving dying fires, The Thoughtful Soul to speculate aspires; And the lean Hand of Shylock and his Kin Puts out some Money, which he gladly Hires. Myself, when Young, did eagerly Frequent Broker and Broke; and heard Great Argument About it and about. Yet evermore Came out far Shrewder than when in I went. With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, And then I thought I'd sure be in The Know; And this is all the Wisdom that I gained: If you buy High, Quotations will be Low! Some for the Glories of the System; Some Sigh for the big Fool's Paradise to come. Ah, take the Cash, and let the Profits go, Nor heed the Rumble of a Boston Drum! The System that with logic absolute Both Standard Oil and Copper can confute; The Sovereign Alchemist that in a trice National Lead can into Gold transmute. Indeed, indeed, at Brokers oft Before I swore. But was I Cautious when I swore? And then Came Gay State Gas and Rise-in-Hand; I plunged—and Lost some Fifty Thousand More. And then that New Prospectus cast a Spell, And robbed me of my Hard-Earned Savings. Well, I often wonder what the Magnates buy One-Half so precious as the Fools they Sell. Ah, My Beloved, all Goes up in Smoke! Last week is past Regret; To-day is a joke; To-morrow—why, to-morrow I may be Myself with Yesterday's Seven Thousand Broke! You know, My Friends, with what a Brave Carouse I put a Second Mortgage on my House, So I could Buy a lot of Copper Shares— I even used the Savings of my Spouse! I sent my Soul down where the Magnates flock To learn the Truth about some Worthless Stock; And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered: "I, myself, have Bought a Block!" Oh, threats of Curbs, and Hopes of Bucket-shops, Whether Industrials, Railroads, Mines or Crops; One thing is Certain, and the Rest is Lies— The Stock that you have Bought Forever Drops! And if, in Vain, down on the Stubborn Floor Of the Exchange you Hazard all your Store, You Rise to-day—while Crops are up—how then To-morrow, when they Fall to Rise no more? Waste not your Money on Expected Gain Of this or that Provision, Crop or Grain. Better be Jocund with Industrials, Than sadden just Because it Doesn't Rain! Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend Before we, too, into the Pit descend! Dust unto Dust, and without Dust to Live, Sans Stock, sans Bonds, sans Credit and sans Friend. The Moving Ticker tells. And, having told, Moves on. Nor all your Poverty nor Gold Shall lure it back to Raise one-half a Point, Nor let you Realize on what you Hold. For I remember stopping in the Jam To watch a Magnate shearing a Poor Lamb. And with an Eager and Excited Tongue It murmured: "Oh, how Fortunate I am!" No book of verses! But a Ticker Tape, Quotation Record and a Daily Pape; A yellow-haired stenographer—Perhaps That Wilderness might be a Good Escape! When You and I are hid within the Tomb, The System still shall Lure New Souls to Doom; Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As Wall Street's Self should heed a Lawson Boom. Ah, Love! could you and I lay on the Shelf This Sorry Scheme of Ill-begotten Pelf, Would we not Shatter it to Bits, and Then Remould a System just to suit Ourself?

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