THE YELLOW AGE.
The poets sing of a Golden Age. Are we trying to start its fellow? The Yellow Aster is all the rage; The Yellow Races in war engage; The Primrose League wild war doth wage, And the much-boomed Book in cover and page Like the Age itself is—Yellow. Well, Yellow's the tint of Gold—and Brass! Of the Golden Calf—and the Golden Ass! Of the "livery" face and the faded leaf, But 'tis tedious, very, beyond belief. I own I am little inclined to smile On the colour of age, decay, and bile And mustard, and Othello; I'm tired, I own, of it's very look, And I feel compelled to cock a snook At the Yellow Primrose, the Yellow Book. Though an Age indeed That runs to seed Is like to run to Yellow!
