For when we once go strainin" to keep it dry or rainin"
To suit the general public, "twill bust the world in two,
WAS, IS, AND YET-TO-BE
Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be Were chatting over a cup of tea.
In tarnished finery smelling of must, Was talked of people long turned to dust;
Of t.i.tles and honours and high estate, All forgotten or out of date;
Of wonderful feasts in the long ago, Of pride that perished with nothing to show.
"I loathe the present," said Was, with a groan; "I live in pleasures that I HAVE known."
The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze, Looked over the head of musty Was,
And gazed far off into misty s.p.a.ce With a wrapt expression upon her face.
"Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me, Such glory, such honour," said Yet-to-be.
"No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been, Of such successes as I shall win.
"The past, the present--why, what are they?
I live for the joy of a future day."
Then practical Is, in a fresh print dress, Spoke up with a laugh, "I must confess
"I find to-day so pleasant," she said, "I never look back, and seldom ahead.
"Whatever has been, is a finished sum; Whatever will be--why, let it come.
"To-day is mine. And so, you see, I have the past and the yet-to-be;
"For to-day is the future of yesterday, And the past of to-morrow. I live while I may,
"And I think the secret of pleasure is this.
And this alone," said practical Is.
MISTAKES
G.o.d sent us here to make mistakes, To strive, to fail, to re-begin, To taste the tempting fruit of sin, And find what bitter food it makes,
To miss the path, to go astray, To wander blindly in the night; But, searching, praying for the light, Until at last we find the way.
And looking back along the past, We know we needed all the strain Of fear and doubt and strife and pain To make us value peace, at last.
Who fails, finds later triumph sweet; Who stumbles once, walks then with care, And knows the place to cry "Beware"
To other unaccustomed feet.
Through strife the slumbering soul awakes, We learn on error"s troubled route The truths we could not prize without The sorrow of our sad mistakes.
DUAL
You say that your nature is double; that life Seems more and more intricate, complex, and dual, Because in your bosom there wages the strife "Twixt an angel of light and a beast that is cruel - An angel who whispers your spirit has wings, And a beast who would chain you to temporal things.
I listen with interest to all you have told, And now let me give you my view of your trouble: You are to be envied, not pitied; I hold THAT EVERY STRONG NATURE IS ALWAYS MADE DOUBLE.
The beast has his purpose; he need not be slain: He should serve the good angel in harness and chain.
The body that never knows carnal desires, The heart that to pa.s.sion is always a stranger, Is merely a furnace with unlighted fires; It sends forth no warmth while it threatens no danger.
But who wants to shiver in cold safety there?
TOUCH FLAME TO THE FUEL! then watch it with care.
Those wild, fierce emotions that trouble your soul Are sparks from the great source of pa.s.sion and power; Throne reason above them, and give it control, And turn into blessing this dangerous dower.
By lightnings unguided destruction is hurled, But chained and directed they gladden the world.
THE ALL-CREATIVE SPARK
Pain can go guised as joy, dross pa.s.s for gold, Vulgarity can masquerade as wit, Or spite wear friendship"s garments; but I hold That pa.s.sionate feeling has no counterfeit.
Chief jewel from Jove"s crown "twas sent men, lent For inspiration and for sacrament.
Jove never could have made the Universe Had he not glowed with pa.s.sion"s sacred fire; Though man oft turns the blessing to a curse, And burns himself on his own funeral pyre, Though scarred the soul be where its light burns bright, Yet where it is not, neither is there might.
Yea, it was set in Jove"s resplendent crown When he created worlds; that done, why, hence, He cast the priceless, awful jewel down To be man"s punishment and recompense.
And that is how he sees and hears our tears Unmoved and calm from the eternal spheres.
But sometimes, since he parted with all pa.s.sion, In trifling mood, to pa.s.s the time away, He has created men in that same fashion, And many women (jesting as G.o.ds may), Who have no souls to be inspired or fired, Mere sport of idle G.o.ds who have grown tired.
And these poor puppets, gazing in the dark At their own shadows, think the world no higher; And when they see the all-creative spark In other souls, they straightway cry out, "Fire!"
And shriek, and rave, till their dissent is spent, While listening G.o.ds laugh loud in merriment.