And to sit and loaf and idle till the day
Dies away,
In a duplicate ethereally cool,
Or around the place to potter,
(Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,)
As contented as an otter
In a pool!
'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst
Till he burst,
Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night,
If he finds the diet sweet, oh,
Who am I to place a veto
On the pestilent mosquito?—
Let him bite!'
O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin,
Could I win
To the wisdom that would render me exempt
From the grosser bonds that tether
You and Astral Me together,
I should simply treat the weather
With contempt;
I should contemplate its horrors with entire
Lack of ire,
And pursuant to my comfortable aim,
With a snap at every shackle
I should quit my tabernacle,
And serenely sit and cackle
At the game!
But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,'
And the clay
Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore,
And the cuticle is pickled
Where the prickly heat has prickled,
And the nose and ears are tickled
As before;
And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools
Print the rules
That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close,
Body mine, though others chide thee,
And consistently deride thee,
I shall have to stay inside thee,
I suppose!
SUMMER PORTENTS
Come, let us quaff the brimming cup
Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain;
For clearly, things are warming up
Again.