Her voice? Or did a music break
Across the street’s harsh sea
Whose thunder deepens? Christ! I wake
To miserable me!
THE MIDGES
Alcon, the wood-god, wandering his realm,
Found his son Astries in the meadowland
At sunset, squatted on a fallen pine
And much intent upon a swarm of gnats.
To whom the godling: “Father, I have stayed
This hour to wonder at yon tiny folk,
Who dart, and hum, and make so much a-do,
Mad with the sunlight. What it is they seek
And whom they praise, and why, I do not know;
But as the hour grows old, and twilight hills
Put on the purple, this I see—that they
With wilder zeal do dash this way and that,
And where each in a foot of space had range,
Now flits he two, and shriller grows the cry,
Larger the host, and greater its concern.
Dost note?” Whereat brown Alcon plucked a root
And beat it on the pine, and briefly spake:
“Aye! aye! they call it ‘progress’!” And the sun
Sank on the forest, and the night was chill.
TO AMBROSE BIERCE
I saw a statue in the market-place—
The guerdon of a life of noble toil.
Austerely shone the marble that should foil
Oblivion, tho’ the desecrated base,
Round which the sullen huckster trod, bore trace
Of dogs’ defilement—transitory moil
That expiating rains would soon assoil;
But oh, the sunlight on that tranquil face!
What to the Titan were the mindless deed,
Mire-born, and swiftly with the mire made one?
No more than could the marble couldst thou heed
The mongrel, and the hate of souls uncouth—
Thou eagle who hast gazed upon the sun
And canst endure the light which is the truth!
TO HALL B. RAND
Happy the man whose age attains
Repute and rank among the best!
Whose soul no breath of rumor stains
Nor hath remorse for daily guest.
On him the years as laurels sit,
For Duty at his side hath stood;
Thro him the grateful gods permit
A living witness unto good.
Him shall the love of men surround,
And wisdom shield from darker cares,
Who virtue to the end hath found
And honor whiter than his hairs.