And whilst I was enjoying this grand sight There rose before my mind another sight: I saw the street between the sidewalks filled In compact mass with wan and worn spectators Who were in silence viewing the parade, It was a mob of children, men and women Whose pallid faces and whose piteous rags Gave to the spectacle a capital contrast, 'Twas Easter, Easter, lo! The Christ has risen! Upon the whole the show was capital. CONTEMPLATION I went into a house of many lofts, And in each loft I saw a thousand men, And women, too, and children, too, I saw. And all around arose a deaf'ning roar-- The roaring of machines o'er which were bent The toilers toiling at their tiresome task. And as I stood and gazed upon this scene I wondered why it was--I wondered why.... I went into a house of gilded halls, And in each hall there shone a thousand lights, And many men and women also shone. Delightful music mingled with perfume. Around luxurious tables, diners sat Enjoying luscious viands, mellow wines. And as I stood and gazed upon this scene, I thought of toilers and I understood. CONFIDENCES I have to go to work to win my bread, When oft upon my way the Muse of song, Espying me from far approaches me And takes me by the hand as tenderly As would a sister take her little brother. She whispers words as sparkling as champagne, As warm as blood, as pure as morning dew, And so enchants me that I cannot help But yield unto the tempting muse of song. She takes me from the world's drear, dusty road And leads me into that mysterious park Where lies the limpid lake of inspiration. The flowers of life and death grow in this park-- Of love and hate, the flowers of joy and pain, Of smiles and sighs, of laughter and of tears, The blooms of hope and those of disillusion. All, all these flowers grow in this wondrous park. I drink some water from the Muse's palm, The water of the lake of inspiration. And then in silence do I wend my way Through rows of silent and mysterious flowers, Inhaling all the odors of the flowers, The sweet and bitter odors of the flowers. And like the bee, I also make some honey, Alas! my honey is not always sweet. Perhaps because the flowers of life are bitter. Then I am harshly driven from this Eden By the compulsion of a god I hate, And I must go to work to win my bread. The honey of the poet has no market. Tempt me no more, dear Muse, or else I'll starve. IN THE LIBRARY