You think the stream of life is flowing solely To bear you to the goal you’re aiming at— But you may find yourself mistaken wholly. As for your song, perhaps it’s most poetic, Perhaps it’s not—on that point we won’t quarrel— But here I lodge a protest energetic, Say what you will, against its wretched moral. A masterly economy and new To let the birds play havoc at their pleasure Among your fruit-trees, fruitless now for you, And suffer flocks and herds to trample through Your garden, and lay waste its springtide treasure! A pretty prospect, truly, for next year! FALK. Oh, next, next, next! The thought I loathe and fear That these four letters timidly express— It beggars millionaires in happiness! If I could be the autocrat of speech But for one hour, that hateful word I’d banish; I’d send it packing out of mortal reach, As B and G from Knudsen’s Grammar vanish. STIVER. Why should the word of hope enrage you thus? FALK. Because it darkens God’s fair earth for us. “Next year,” “next love,” “next life,”—my soul is vext To see this world in thraldom to “the next.” ’Tis this dull forethought, bent on future prizes, That millionaires in gladness pauperises. Far as the eye can reach, it blurs the age; All rapture of the moment it destroys; No one dares taste in peace life’s simplest joys Until he’s struggled on another stage— And there arriving, can he there repose? No—to a new “next” off he flies again; On, on, unresting, to the grave he goes; And God knows if there’s any resting then. MISS JAY. Fie, Mr. Falk, such sentiments are shocking. ANNA [_pensively_]. Oh, I can understand the feeling quite; I am sure at bottom Mr. Falk is right. MISS JAY [_perturbed_]. My Stiver mustn’t listen to his mocking. He’s rather too eccentric even now.— My dear, I want you. STIVER [_occupied in cleaning his pipe_]. Presently, my dear. GULDSTAD [_to_ FALK]. One thing at least to me is very clear;— And that is that you cannot but allow Some forethought indispensable. For see, Suppose that you to-day should write a sonnet, And, scorning forethought, you should lavish on it Your last reserve, your all, of poetry, So that, to-morrow, when you set about Your next song, you should find yourself cleaned out, Heavens! how your friends the critics then would crow! FALK.