O still, spoiled trees, O city ways,
O sun desired in vain,
O dread presentiment of coming rain
That cloys the sullen days!
Thee, heart of mine, I greet.
In what hard mountain pass
Striv’st thou? In what importunate morass
Sink now thy weary feet?
Thou run’st a hopeless race
To win despair. No crown
Awaits success, but leaden gods look down
On thee, with evil face.
And those that would befriend
And cherish thy defeat,
With angry welcome shall turn sour the sweet
Home-coming of the end.
Yea, those that offer praise
To idleness, shall yet
Insult thee, coming glorious in the sweat
Of honourable ways.
APOLOGETIC POSTSCRIPT OF A YEAR LATER
If you see this song, my dear,
And last year’s toast,
I’m confoundedly in fear
You’ll be serious and severe
About the boast.
Blame not that I sought such aid
To cure regret.
I was then so lowly laid
I used all the Gasconnade
That I could get.
Being snubbed is somewhat smart,
Believe, my sweet;
And I needed all my art
To restore my broken heart
To its conceit.
Come and smile, dear, and forget
I boasted so,
I apologise—regret—
It was all a jest;—and—yet—
I do not know.