I dare not come to you with virile phrase To tell you to give heed to what I say: To live your life in age-instructed way, To light your dawn with sunset’s fading rays. I dare not wish to live again my days. I, too, was careless when birds sang in May, I loved to wander on the primrose way, Untaught, I crashed through life’s conflicting maze. Reverance, sanctity, and holy awe, Your body’s kingdom, and your soul the king. These are the messages of God I bring, To keep your holiness without a flaw. God gave to you the priceless gift of youth, And I, unheeded, offer you mere truth. BALLADE FOR MORALISTS Sing me a lilting, laughing song, Some spritely, springtime roundelay, That’s not too burdensome or long ... That hasn’t got too much to say. O sing of goblin, elf or fay, And deck your verse with imagery Just this remember: Make it gay ... O poet, do not preach to me! Weave me weird tales of old Hong Kong, Of China, or of far Cathay, With pig-tailed heroes, called Hoo Chong Who struggle in a tyrant’s sway. Be sure the setting of your lay (If it should end unpleasantly) Be very, very far away ... O poet, do not preach to me! If to some antique, classic wrong Poetic tribute you would pay ... Resound some martyr’s funeral gong ... Awake the tears of yesterday ... I am not one to bid you nay, But this I beg you earnestly Don’t tack a moral to your lay ... O poet, do not preach to me! L’envoi I only hope some poet may Read this, and act accordingly, Not tear into bits, and say: “O poet, do not preach to me!” HEAVEN, AT LAST I staggered up the last step of the golden stairs and stood puffing and gasping. St. Peter came over to me and flapped his wings in my face. I noticed that the wings were all lettered--A.B.C.D.--I didn’t look further. “Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and gloatingly fingered his keys. The largest was square and shiny--a Phi Beta Kappa Key. I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8-¹⁄₂×11 paper from my pocket. St. Peter took it, slowly looked at it upside down, then sideways, then right side up. “Un-huh,” said St. Peter at last, with celestial vagueness, “Un-huh,” he repeated wisely. “May I ...” I whispered. St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me a great expanse of wing. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a feather, and while you are about it, take one for each of your little friends.” “I can’t see which one to choose, if I close my eyes,” I objected most knowingly. “It doesn’t make any difference which one you choose,” said St. Peter, “I only give them out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really help you to fly. It just gives you confidence. The rest is up to you.” THE FUTURE