In the storms of life we can fret the eye
Where the guttering mud is drifted,
Or we can look to the world-wide sky
Where the Artist's scenes are shifted.
Puddles are oceans in miniatures,
Or merely puddles; the choice is yours.
We can strip our niggardly souls so bare
That we haggle a penny between us;
Or we can be rich in a common share
Of the Pleiades and Venus.
You can lift your soul to its outermost look,
Or can keep it packed in a pocketbook.
We may follow a phantom the arid miles
To a mountain of cankered treasure,
Or we can find, in a baby's smiles,
The pulse of a living pleasure.
We may drink of the sea until we burst,
While the trickling spring would have quenched our thirst.
THE SAVING CLAUSE.
Kerr wrote a book, and a good book, too;
At least I[A] managed to read it through
Without finding very much room for blame,
And a good many other folks did the same.
But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you read?"
Or: "How do you like?" I[A] only said:
"Very good, very good! and I'm glad enough;
For his other writings are horrible stuff."
Banks wrote a play, and it had a run.
(That's a good deal more than ever I've[A] done.)
The interest held with hardly a lag
From the overture to the final tag.
But when any one asked me[A]: "Have you seen?"
Or: "What do you think?" I[A] looked serene
And remarked: "Oh, a pretty good thing of its kind,
But I guess Mr. Shakespeare needn't mind!"
Phelps made a machine; 't was smooth as grease.
(I[A] couldn't invent its smallest piece
In a thousand years.) It was tried and tried,
Until everybody was satisfied.
But when any one asked me[A]: "Will it pay?"—
"Is it really good?"—I[A] could only say:
"It's a marvelous thing! Why, it almost thinks!
And Phelps is a wonder—too bad he drinks!"
[A] (Errata: On scanning the verses through I find these pronouns should all read "You.")