  Seems not our breathing light? Sound not our voices free? Bid to Life’s festal bright No gladder guests there be. Ah, stranger, lay aside Cold prudence! I divine The secret you would hide, And you conjecture mine. You too have temperate eyes, Have put your heart to school, Are proved. I recognize A brother of the rule. I knew it by your lip, A something when you smiled, Which meant “close scholarship, A master of the guild.” Well, and how good is life, Good to be born, have breath, The calms good and the strife, Good life, and perfect death. Come, for the dancers wheel, Join we the pleasant din, —Comrade, it serves to feel The sackcloth next the skin. |
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