  WHAT! doubt the Master Workman’s hand Because my fleshly ills increase? No; for there still remains one chance That I am not His masterpiece. Out of all Epicurus’ train The drones, or workers, who believe This doctrine of “Believe-the-Nearest.” You invalids who cannot drink Much wine or love, I say to you, “Content yourselves with laughing at The antics of the fools who do.” Bad-liver says each morning’s sun Is but to him a juggling bawd, That opens up for man’s deceit Only another chest of fraud. Old Ash-in-Blood still deals advice To Rose-of-Youth, and as he deals it, Rolls piously his eyes; but ah, He knows the pain whose body feels it. In youth my head was hollow, like A gourd, not knowing good from ill; Now, though ’tis long since then, I’m like A reed—wind-shaken, hollow still. Said one young foolish mouth with words As many as the desert sands, “My grandfather took daily baths In rose-water; just smell my hands!” And now young poets will arise And burst earth’s fetters link by link, And mount the skies of poesy, And daub Time’s helpless wings with ink! In youth I wrote a song so great, I thought that, like a flaring taper, ’Twould shine abroad; and so it did, To the four corners of the—paper. And, poet, should you think your songs Must, or even will, be read, Bethink thee, friend, what fine springs rise Impotently from the sea’s bed. I marvelled at the speaker’s tongue, And marvelled more as he unrolled it. How strange a thing it was, and yet How much more strange if he could hold it! A little judge once said to me, “Behold, my friend, I caused these laws!” But I knew One who, strange to say, Had been the Causer of this Cause. See fathoms deep, midst gold and gems, Life sits and weeps on ocean’s floor; But though on land no treasure is, Life laughs and stands. I’ll stay on shore. This mess of cracked ice, stones and bread, Of sweetness savours not a bit, And yet, my friends, I’m satisfied, For lo! I—I—invented it! Frederic Ridgely Torrence. |
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