SOMETIMES
Sometimes I long for a lazy isle,
Ten thousand miles from home,
Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smile
And the milk-white breakers foam—
A coral island, bravely set
In the midst of the Southern sea,
Away from the hurry and noise and fret
Forever surrounding me!
For I tire of labor and care and fight,
And I weary of plan and scheme,
And ever and ever my thoughts take flight
To the island of my dream;
And I fancy drowsing the whole day long
In a hammock that gently swings—
Away from the clamorous, toiling throng,
Away from the swirl of things!
And yet I know, in a little while,
When the first glad hours were spent,
I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle
And cease to be content!
I'd hear the call of the world's great game—
And battle with gold and men—
And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame,
Back to the game again!
—Berton Braley.
Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916.
THE PIONEERS
Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.)
We're the men that always march a bit before
Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same;
We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door—
Play and lose and pay the candle for the game.
There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go;
There's no painted post to point the right-of-way,
But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves
To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday.
It's infrequent that we're popular at home,
(Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,)
And we scoff at living a la metronome,
And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap.
True—we cannot hold a job to save our lives;
We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore—
'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest
And we rope and tie the world and call for more.
Well, they try to hold us back by foolish words—
But we go ahead and do the thing we've planned;
Then they drive us out to shelter with the birds—
And the ravens bring our breakfast to our hand.
So they jail us and we lecture to the guards;
They beat us—we make sermons of their whips;
They feed us melted lead and behold the Word is said.
That shall burn upon a million living lips.