Oh, give me whatever I do not possess,
No matter whatever it be;
So long as I haven't it that is enough,
I fancy, to satisfy me.
No matter whatever I happen to have,
I have it; and what I have not
Seems all that is good of the good things of earth
To lighten the lack of my lot.
No covetous spirit incites the desire
To have what I haven't, I'm sure;
Because when I have what I haven't, I want
What I haven't, the same as before.
So, give me whatever I do not possess,
No matter whatever it be;
And yet—
To have what I haven't is having, and that
Destroys all the pleasure for me.
HER BROTHER: ENFANT TERRIBLE[6]
BY EDWIN L. SABIN
This is Her brother; angel-faced,—
Barring freckles and turned-up nose,—
Demon-minded—a word well based,
As nearer acquaintance will disclose.
From outward guise the most sage of men
Would never guess what within lies hid!
If years we reckon, in age scant ten;
If cunning, old as a pyramid.
This is Her brother, who sticks and sticks
Tighter than even a brother should;
Brimming over with teasing tricks,
Hardened to bribe and "please be good";
And who, when at last afar we deem,
In some sly recess but lurks in wait
To note the progress of love's young dream—
And we learn of his presence too late, too late!
This is Her brother, with watchful eyes,
Piercing, shameless, and indiscreet,
With ears wide open for soft replies
And sounds that are sibilant and sweet!
With light approach (not a lynx so still),
With figure meanly invisible,
With threatening voice and iron will,
And shrill demands or he'll "go and tell!"
This is Her brother—and I submit
To paying out quarters and sundry dimes;
This is Her brother—whose urchin wit
Moves me to wrath a thousand times;
This is Her brother—and hence I smile
And jest and cringe at his tyranny,
And call him "smart"! But just wait a while
Till he's my brother—and then we'll see!
THE JACKPOT
BY IRONQUILL
I sauntered down through Europe,
I wandered up the Nile,
I sought the mausoleums where the mummied Pharaohs lay;
I found the sculptured tunnel
Where quietly in style
Imperial sarcophagi concealed the royal clay.
Above the vault was graven deep the motto of the crown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
It's strange what deep impressions
Are made by little things.
Within the granite tunneling I saw a dingy cleft;
It was a cryptic chamber.
I drew, and got four kings.
But on a brief comparison I laid them down and left,
Because upon the granite stood that sentence bold and brown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
I make this observation:
A man with such a hand
Has psychologic feelings that perhaps he should not feel,
But I was somewhat rattled
And in a foreign land,
And had some dim suspicions, as I had not watched the deal.
And there was that inscription, too, in words that seemed to frown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
These letters were not graven
In Anglo-Saxon tongue;
Perhaps if you had seen them you had idly passed them by.
I studied erudition
When I was somewhat young;
I recognized the language when it struck my classic eye;
I saw a maxim suitable for monarch or for clown:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."
Detesting metaphysics,
I can not help but put
A philosophic moral where I think it ought to hang;
I've seen a "boom" for office
Grow feeble at the root,
Then change into a boomlet—then to a boomerang.
In caucus or convention, in village or in town:
"Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."