And golden laughter in your lady's bower, And silver-gold in your love's bitter hour.
You showed us, burdened with our hopes and fears, Laughter and tears.
Poor tears that fell upon the thirsty sands, Poor laughter stifled with ungentle hands, Poor heart that was so sweet to laugh and cry, Your joyful, mournful songs shall never die, But show us still across the shadowing years Laughter and tears.
E. A. Mackintosh, M. C.
WHEN SHAKESPEARE LAUGHED *
When Shakespeare laughed, the fun began! Even the tavern barmaids ran
To choke in secret, and unbent A lace, to ease their merriment.
The Mermaid rocked to hear the man.
Then Ben his aching girth would span, And roar above his pasty pan,
"Avast there, Will, for I am spent!" When Shakespeare laughed.
I'faith, let him be grave who can When Falstaff, Puck and Caliban In one explosive jest are blent. The boatman on the river lent An ear to hear the mirthful clan When Shakespeare laughed. Christopher Morley
* From The Rocking Horse by Christopher Morley. Copyright 1919, George H. Doran Company, Publishers.
With Pipe and Book at close of day, O! what is sweeter, mortal, say;
It matters not what book on knee, Old Izaak or the Odyssey,
It matters not meerschaum or clay.
And though one's eyes will dream astray, And lips forget to sue or sway, It is "enough to merely Be," With Pipe and Book.
What though our modern skies be grey, As bards aver, I will not pray
For "soothing Death" to succour me, But ask thus much, O Fate, of thee,A little longer here to stay
With Pipe and Book.
The Old Year goes down-hill so slow And silent that he seems to know
The mighty march of time, foretelling His departure; to his eyelids welling Come tears of bitter pain and woe.
The lusty blast can scarce forego His cape about his ears to blow, As feebly to his final dwelling The Old Year goes!
Within the belfry, row on row, The bells are swinging to and fro;
Now joyfully the chimes are swelling
Now solemn and few the notes are knelling
For here the New Year comes:-and lo! The Old Year goes!
The ships go down to take the sea. Who seeks the dawn-pale mystery That lies beyond the violet bays? What masts shall dip into the haze, Slip through, to where the sea-lights be?
Oh, valiant young explorers we! Of the dim seas hope makes us free: Into the dawn-gray water-ways
The ships go down.
And none may know for what far quay Their sails are set, or what their fee.
Some bear rich freights through golden days; Some come to where the dim sea sways
And breaks, and, vanquished utterly,
The ships go down.
The old sea-ways send up their tide; The battered ships to harbour ride. In the deep seas beyond the bar, Where the great winds and waters are, The drifting ships have dropped their pride:
When for the morning seas they plied, Who but young Hope should be their guide, To steer them through the rocks that scar The old sea-ways?
Into the port they reel and slide, So for a little space abide,
Waiting the gleam of the dawn-star To seek new waters, strange and far, But no more shall their keels divide The old sea-ways.
O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breast The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest,
Draw near me through the stillness of this place And let thy low breath move across my face, As faint winds move above a poplar's crest.
The broad seas darken slowly in the west; The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest; Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space, O happy Sleep!
There is no sorrow hidden or confess'd, There is no passion uttered or suppress'd, Thou canst not for a little while efface; Enfold me in thy mystical embrace,
Thou sovereign gift of God, most sweet, most blest, O happy Sleep!
The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? Living at least in Lempriere undeleted, The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose, Are one and all, I like to think, retreated In some still land of lilacs and the rose.
Once high they sat, and high o'er earthy shows With sacrificial dance and song were greeted, Once
long ago: but now the story goes,
The gods are dead.
It must be true. The world a world of prose, Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze.
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows Who will may hear the sorry words repeated- The gods are dead.
The Gates of Horn are dull of hue (If all our wise men tell us true).
No songs, they say, nor perfumed air Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there, No leaves are green, no skies are blue.
Yet he who will may find a clue (Mid shadows steeped in opal dew) To seek, and see them passing fair, The Gates of Horn.
The man that goes not wreathed with rue, Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue, With red rose-garlands in their hair And garments gay with gold and vair, Full fain to meet him trooping through The Gates of Horn.
What is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good-was good to show,
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