In every heart flamed cruelty Like a little emerald snake. And each one knew if he should stand In another's way the dagger-hand Would make the stronger the feofee Of the coveted wapentake. There's not a thing men will not do For honor, gold, or power. We smile and call the city fair, We call life lovely and debonair, But Proserpina never grew So deadly a passion flower. Go live for an hour in a tropic land Hid near a sinking pool: The lion and tiger come to drink, The boa crawls to the water's brink, The elephant bull kneels down in the sand And drinks till his throat is cool. Jehovah will keep you awhile unseen As you lie behind the rocks. But go, if you dare, to slake your thirst, Though Jesus died for our life accursed Your bones by the tiger will be licked clean As he licks the bones of an ox. And the sky may be blue as fleur de lis, And the earth be tulip red; And God in heaven, and life all good While you lie hid in the underwood: And the city may leave you sorrow free If you ask it not for bread. One day Achilles lost a horse While the pest at Troy was rife, And a million maggots fought and ate Like soldiers storming a city's gate, And Thersites said, as he looked at the corse, "Achilles, that is life." * * * * * Day fades and from a million cells The office people pour. Like bees that crawl on the honeycomb The workers scurry to what is home, And trains and traffic and clanging bells Make the cañon highways roar. Helios walked the city's ways Till the lights began to shine. Then the janitor women start to scrub And the Pharisees up and enter the club, And the harlot wakes, and the music plays And the glasses glow with wine. Now we're good fellows one and all, And the buffet storms with talk. "The market's closed and trade's at end We had our battle, now I'm your friend." And thanks to the spirit of alcohol Men go for a ride or walk. Oh but traffic is not all done Nor everything yet sold. There's woman to win, and plots to weave, There's a heart to hurt, or one to deceive, And bargains to bind ere rise of Sun To garner the morrow's gold. The market at night is as full of fraud As the market kept by day. The courtesan buys a soul with a look, A dinner tempers the truth in a book, And love is sold till love is a bawd, And falsehood froths in the play. And men and women sell their smiles For friendship's lifeless dregs. For fear of the morrow we bend and bow To moneybags with the slanting brow. For the heart that knows life's little wiles Seldom or never begs. "Poor men," sighed Helios, "how they long For the ultimate fire of love. They yearn, through life, like the peacock moth, And die worn out in search of the troth. For love in the soul is the siren song That wrecks the peace thereof." * * * * *