Songs from Vagabondia Part 8

Sunny days or dreary-- How they pall!

Why should we be heroes, Launa Dee, Striving to no winning?

Let the world be Zero's!

As in the beginning Let it be!

What good comes of toiling, When all's done?

Frail green sprays for spoiling Of the sun; Laurel leaf or myrtle, Love or fame-- Ah, what odds what spray, sweet?

Time, that makes life fertile, Makes its blooms decay, sweet, As they came.

Lie here with me dreaming, Cheek to cheek, Lithe limbs twined and gleaming, Brown and sleek; Like two serpents coiling In their lair.

Where's the good of wreathing Sprays for Time's despoiling?

Let me feel your breathing In my hair.

You and I together-- Was it so?

In the August weather Long ago!

Did we kiss and fellow, Side by side, Till the sunbeams quickened From our stalks great yellow Sunflowers, till we sickened There and died?

Were we tigers creeping Through the glade Where our prey lay sleeping, Unafraid, In some Eastern jungle?

Better so.

I am sure the snarling Beasts could never bungle Life as men do, darling, Who half know.

Ah, if all of life, love, Were the living!

Just to cease from strife, love, And from grieving; Let the swift world pa.s.s us, You and me, Stilled from all aspiring,-- Sinai nor Parna.s.sus Longer worth desiring, Launa Dee!

Just to live like lilies In the lake!

Where no thought nor will is, To mistake!

Just to lose the human Eyes that weep!

Just to cease from seeming Longer man and woman!

Just to reach the dreaming And the sleep!

THE MENDICANTS.

We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun.

Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one.

And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold.

Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day.

Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, His beggar's wisdom only sees Housing and bread and beer enough; He knows no other things than these.

O foolish ones, put by your care!

Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, G.o.d keeps an open house for you.

But that some Fortunatus' gift Is lying there within his hand, More costly than a pot of pearls, His dulness does not understand.

And so his creature heart is filled; His shrunken self goes starved away.

Let him wear brand-new garments still, Who has a threadbare soul, I say.

But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of G.o.d, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod.

They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing.

They too receive each one his Day; But their wise heart knows many things Beyond the sating of desire, Above the dignity of kings.

One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair.

Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars.

THE MARCHING MORROWS.

Now gird thee well for courage, My knight of twenty year, Against the marching morrows That fill the world with fear!

The flowers fade before them; The summer leaves the hill; Their trumpets range the morning, And those who hear grow still.

Like pillagers of harvest, Their fame is far abroad, As gray remorseless troopers That plunder and maraud.

The dust is on their corselets; Their marching fills the world; With conquest after conquest Their banners are unfurled.

They overthrow the battles Of every lord of war, From world-dominioned cities Wipe out the names they bore.

Sohrab, Rameses, Roland, Ramoth, Napoleon, Tyre, And the Romeward Huns of Attila-- Alas, for their desire!

By April and by autumn They perish in their pride, And still they close and gather Out of the mountain-side.

The tanned and tameless children Of the wild elder earth, With stature of the northlights, They have the stars for girth.

There's not a hand to stay them, Of all the hearts that brave; No captain to undo them, No cunning to off-stave.

Yet fear thou not! If haply Thou be the kingly one, They'll set thee in their vanguard To lead them round the sun.

IN THE WORKSHOP.

Once in the Workshop, ages ago, The clay was wet and the fire was low.

And He who was bent on fas.h.i.+oning man Moulded a shape from a clod, And put the loyal heart therein; While another stood watching by.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.