Wake! for the bearded goat devours the door! And now the family pig forbears to snore, And from his trough sets up the Persian’s cry— “Eat! drink! To-morrow we shall be no more!” Eat, drink and sleep! Aye, eat and sleep who can! I work and ache. The beast outstrips the man; And when oblivion bids the sequence end, Which shall we say has best filled nature’s plan? When on Gowanus’ hills the whistle blows What dreams are mine of Hafiz’ wine-red rose? And when I drag my leaden feet toward home No sensuous bulbul note woos to repose. I envy the dull brute my hand shall slay. He lifts no stolid eye above the clay. I, longing, on the cloud-banked verge discern “Unborn To-morrow and dead Yesterday.” What is the Cup to lips that may not drain? Or fleeting joy to lives conceived in pain? Toil and aspire is still the common lot, Stumbling to rise and rising fall again. And is this all? Shall skies no longer shine, Or stars lure on to themes that seem divine? Ah, Maker of the Tents! is this thy hope— To feed and grovel and to die like swine? W. M. SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SUNDRY BITS OF WISDOM WHICH HAVE BEEN HERETOFORE SECRETED, AND ARE NOW SET FORTH IN PRINT. To Robert Cameron Rogers: You are keeping the stage waiting. * * * * * My friend with the Sharp Scissors which edit the Table Talk column of the Buffalo _Commercial_ had a few words to say the other evening regarding success. He alleged that Mr. Bok and Richard Harding Davis were successful men, and that it was the pleasure of unsuccessful people to jump on them mercilessly. I dislike to disagree with Mr. Quilp, but it seems to me that he belongs to that class of people who habitually miss the point of things.