To RODERICK MEIKLEJOHN
THE ETERNAL CLUB
Warming their withered hands, the dotards say:
"In our youth men were happy till they died.
What is it ails the young men of to-day—
To make them bitter and dissatisfied?"
Two thousand years ago it was the same:
"Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son!
I knew him as a child—his head aflame
With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun.
And even as a young man he was fine,
Converting tasteless water into wine.
Then something altered him. He tried to chase
The money-changers from the Temple door.
White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor
Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men
For friends as discontented—lost all count
Of caste—denied his father, faith, and then
He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount!
But even then he would not let things be;
For when they nailed him high up on the tree,
And gave him vinegar and pierced his side,
He asked God to forgive them—still dissatisfied!"
HEAVEN
A theatre rises dark and mute and drear
Among those houses that stand clustering round.
Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear
The distant rhythm of some lauding sound,
The hot applause that greeted every night
The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight.
The laughter of the young and strong and gay
Who greeted life—then laid their lives away.
Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show,
Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain
And all their courage shown against the foe?
Is this the heaven that they died to gain?
THE BLIND PEDLAR
I stand alone through each long day
Upon these pavers; cannot see
The wares spread out upon this tray
—For God has taken sight from me!
Many a time I've cursed the night
When I was born. My peering eyes
Have sought for but one ray of light
To pierce the darkness. When the skies