Songs from Vagabondia Part 9

"A lover," said G.o.d.

And Beelzebub frowned, for he knew that kind.

And then G.o.d fas.h.i.+oned a fellow shape As lithe as a willow rod, And gave it the merry roving eye And the range of the open road.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.

"A vagrant," said G.o.d.

And Beelzebub smiled, for he knew that kind.

And last of all G.o.d fas.h.i.+oned a form, And gave it, what was odd, The loyal heart and the roving eye; And he whistled, light of care.

"What's that?" said Beelzebub.

"A poet," said G.o.d.

And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know.

THE MOTE.

Two shapes of august bearing, seraph tall, Of indolent imperturbable regard, Stood in the Tavern door to drink. As the first Lifted his gla.s.s to let the warm light melt In the slow bubbles of the wine, a sunbeam, Red and broad as smouldering autumn, smote Down through its mystery; and a single fleck, The tiniest sun-mote settling through the air, Fell on the grape-dark surface and there swam.

Gently the Drinker with fastidious care Stretched hand to clear the speck away. "No, no!"-- His comrade stayed his arm. "Why," said the first, "What would you have me do?" "Ah, let it float A moment longer!" And the second smiled.

"Do you not know what that is?" "No, indeed."

"A mere dust-mote, a speck of soot, you think, A plague-germ still unsatisfied. It is not.

That is the Earth. See, I will stretch my hand Between it and the sun; the pa.s.sing shadow Gives its poor dwellers a glacial period.

Let it but stand an hour, it would dissolve, Intangible as the color of the wine.

There, throw it away now! Lift it from the sweet Enveloping flood it has enjoyed so well;"

(He smiled as only those who live can smile) "Its time is done, its revelry complete, Its being accomplished. Let us drink again."

IN THE HOUSE OF IDIEDAILY.

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!

There were always throats to sing Down the river-banks with spring,

When the stir of heart's desire Set the sapling's heart on fire.

Bobolincolns in the meadows, Leisure in the purple shadows,

Till the poppies without number Bowed their heads in crimson slumber,

And the twilight came to cover Every unreluctant lover.

Not a night but some brown maiden Bettered all the dusk she strayed in,

While the roses in her hair Bankrupted oblivion there.

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!

But this hostelry, The Barrow, With its chambers, bare and narrow,

Mean, ill-windowed, damp, and wormy, Where the silence makes you squirmy,

And the guests are never seen to, Is a vile place, a mere lean-to,

Not a traveller speaks well of, Even worse than I heard tell of,

Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul.

What a dwelling for a soul!

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!

There the hearth was always warm, From the slander of the storm.

There your comrade was your neighbor, Living on to-morrow's labor.

And the board was always steaming, Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming.

Not a plate but scoffed at porridge, Not a cup but floated borage.

There were always jugs of sherry Waiting for the makers merry,

And the dark Burgundian wine That would make a fool divine.

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly In the house of Idiedaily!

RESIGNATION.

When I am only fit to go to bed, Or hobble out to sit within the sun, Ring down the curtain, say the play is done, And the last petals of the poppy shed!

I do not want to live when I am old, I have no use for things I cannot love; And when the day that I am talking of (Which G.o.d forfend!) is come, it will be cold.

But if there is another place than this, Where all the men will greet me as "Old Man,"

And all the women wrap me in a smile, Where money is more useless than a kiss, And good wine is not put beneath the ban, I will go there and stay a little while.

COMRADES.