THOUGHTS ON REACHING LAND
I had a friend whose path was pain—
Oppressed by all the cares of earth
His secret cisterns of rich mirth.
His dreams were laid aside, perforce,
(His trade? Newspaper man, of course!)
What ingots of the heart and mind
Beneath the rasping daily grind.
For fear his soul be wholly lost,
To call soul back, at any cost!
Undrugged by caution and control,
The virtued passion of his soul!
With holy light his eyes would shine—
After the second glass of wine!
Aspired, was generous and free:
Grew flame, as it was meant to be.
Who call the glass the Devil's shape—
Defiles the honor of the grape.
That kindles human brains uncouth—
In aught that brings us nearer Truth!
(Here let our little sermon end)
The secret bosom of your friend!