Fair and worthless things that die Praising their goddess Vanity Here gather. Like a violin Many a sweetly-scented Sin Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly, Finding its roses turned to holly, Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend That Boredom which is Folly’s end. Wherefore the violins make moan. For these “the visible world” alone Exists; and “ah that it should pass!” They cry, and fill a trembling glass. “Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust) They cry; and e’er it falls to dust, “Love it,” they cry, “and hug it well.” “To whatsoever heaven or hell Fate builds for fools, these surely go,” Thought the moralist watching this tinsel show. “Yet is it not difficult to know Who best deserve the name of Fool, These or those more respectable Most moral folks I know so well?... _These_ make of living a foolish sham, _These_ play a silly blind man’s game, Chasing bubbles like a fool. But the others like a sullen mule Play at nothing at all, and so Think they’re good because they’re dull-- Where, in the name of sense, will _they_ go?” Upon which curious reflection The sad and wondering sage arose, Paid for his drink and blew his nose, Brushed the confetti from his clothes, And shuffled forth in deep dejection. MISERERE DOMINE Three things a man can do without: Debtors, a scolding wife, and gout. First hates for what (he knows) they’ve got, Second for what (she knows) he’s not, The third of this unholy lot Hates him and all he hateth not, Brisk walking and the pewter pot, Sound sleep and jovial company. Who suffers these well may cry, God wot-- Miserere Domine! NOW, IF I WERE RICH Now, if I were rich, And lord of the manor, My limbs might all twitch. Now, if I were rich I might marry a--witch, And lose every tanner That made me so rich, And lord of the manor. (_But I wish I were rich, And lord of the manor!_) THE RABBLE FATES--TO HELL WITH THEM! They fling at me stones and mud, My clothes are tattered and foul, My face is covered in blood; But they haven’t hurt my soul. They have beaten me sore--in truth No part of me stands whole! They have stolen away my youth: But they could not steal my soul. Robbed, baffled, and broken, Something lives in me whole; And I hold by that for a token That they cannot conquer my soul. Let them thrash me with knotted sorrow, Stone me with sharp regret; I shall be their king on a morrow, My soul is a monarch yet. THE LAUGHTER OF LITTLE BABIES The laughter of little babies Who chuckle and crow Is the laugh of a stream Which needs must flow Into black caverns; on its way Reflecting briefly the blue of day. The mirth of little babies Who chuckle and nod Is the mirth of a spirit Remembering odd Scraps of the tales and heavenly mirth He shall never remember again on Earth. PETITION TO THE ALMIGHTY