  I praise ye for the noble and prodigal virtues, That are spendthrift of all, Giving and taking with a light hand; For this moment only is ours: Of old ye were provident, and frugal, With the parsimony of peace. Now ye will jeopard your lives for a song, For a mere breath, the shadow of a desire; Cloaking your valour with a jest, Veiling its holiness, Lest wisdom deem ye fools; The vain wisdom of peace. The old and hoary craft, That seeth not the brightness of the sun, That hideth in the earths of foxes, Against minted gold. The wise ... These but traffic in our gems, They are but the merchants of our pleasure Miserly! Who shall hoard up life As it were but a heap of golden discs? For it hath the lightest of light feet, This quarry of our chase: As it were Proteus, Flowing from shape to shape under our hands.... Who shall spread a net to entoil it Or snare it as a bird? Ye play with life as with a gamester, Full of doubles and shifts, And ye laugh at each turn of the game, Your hearts hawking at a chance With a keen-edged zest. Ye know not what ye seek, Having it always. But ye have given me of your dearth The last fragment of your broken bread And gone hungry yourselves: Despising the matter of our lives, The faults and incompleteness Of the crude earth, From which we are moulding, With cunning and nimble fingers, Images of desire. Let us laugh and understand each other, For how could I blame you, my friends, When ye are so generous With the fruit of your thefts? Yea, this moment is sufficient: And being artists, after our diverse manners, When each white dawn cometh Build we the earth anew: Repenting not Yesterdays now drowned in dark, nor desiring The hastening to-morrows. |
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