A LITTLE ink more or less!

It surely can’t matter?

Even the sky and the opulent sea,

The plains and the hills, aloof,

Hear the uproar of all these books.

But it is only a little ink more or less.

A MAN said to the universe,

“Sir, I exist!”

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

A sense of obligation.”

THE Wayfarer,

Perceiving the pathway to truth,

Was struck with astonishment.

It was thickly grown with weeds.

“I see that none has passed here

In a long time.”

Later he saw that each weed

Was a singular knife.

“Well,” he mumbled at last,

“Doubtless there are other roads.”

“HAVE you ever made a just man?”

“Oh, I have made three,” answered God,

“But two of them are dead,

And the third—

Listen! listen,

And you will hear the thud of his defeat.”

THREE little birds in a row

Sat musing.

A man passed near that place.

Then did the little birds nudge each other.

They said, “He thinks he can sing.”

They threw back their heads to laugh.

With quaint countenances

They regarded him.

They were very curious,

Those three little birds in a row.

A YOUTH, in apparel that glittered,

Went to walk in a grim forest.

There he met an assassin

He, scowling through the thickets,

And dagger poised quivering,

Rushed upon the youth.

“Sir,” said the latter,

“I am enchanted, believe me,

To die thus

In this mediÆval fashion,

According to the best legends;

Ah, what joy!”

Then took he the wound, smiling,

And died, content.

A MAN saw a ball of gold in the sky;

He climbed for it,

And eventually he achieved it;

It was clay.

Now this is the strange part:

When the man went to the earth

And looked again,

Lo, there was the ball of gold.

Now this is the strange part:

It was a ball of gold.

Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.

“THINK as I think,” said a man,

“Or you are abominably wicked;

You are a toad.”

And after I had thought of it,

I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

UPON the road of my life,

Passed me many fair creatures,

Clothed all in white, and radiant;

To one, finally, I made speech:

“Who art thou?”

But she, like the others,

Kept cowled her face,

And answered in haste, anxiously,

“I am Good Deed, forsooth;

You have often seen me.”

“Not uncowled,” I made reply.

And with rash and strong hand,

Though she resisted,

I drew away the veil,

And gazed at the features of Vanity.

She, shamefaced, went on;

And after I had mused a time,

I said of myself, “Fool!”