LAUNA DEE.

Weary, oh, so weary
With it all! 
Sunny days or dreary—­
How they pall! 
Why should we be heroes,
Launa Dee,
Striving to no winning? 
Let the world be Zero’s! 
As in the beginning
Let it be!

What good comes of toiling,
When all’s done? 
Frail green sprays for spoiling
Of the sun;
Laurel leaf or myrtle,
Love or fame—­
Ah, what odds what spray, sweet? 
Time, that makes life fertile,
Makes its blooms decay, sweet,
As they came.

Lie here with me dreaming,
Cheek to cheek,
Lithe limbs twined and gleaming,
Brown and sleek;
Like two serpents coiling
In their lair. 
Where’s the good of wreathing
Sprays for Time’s despoiling? 
Let me feel your breathing
In my hair.

You and I together—­
Was it so? 
In the August weather
Long ago! 
Did we kiss and fellow,
Side by side,
Till the sunbeams quickened
From our stalks great yellow
Sunflowers, till we sickened
There and died?

Were we tigers creeping
Through the glade
Where our prey lay sleeping,
Unafraid,
In some Eastern jungle? 
Better so. 
I am sure the snarling
Beasts could never bungle
Life as men do, darling,
Who half know.

Ah, if all of life, love,
Were the living! 
Just to cease from strife, love,
And from grieving;
Let the swift world pass us,
You and me,
Stilled from all aspiring,—­
Sinai nor Parnassus
Longer worth desiring,
Launa Dee!

Just to live like lilies
In the lake! 
Where no thought nor will is,
To mistake! 
Just to lose the human
Eyes that weep! 
Just to cease from seeming
Longer man and woman! 
Just to reach the dreaming
And the sleep!

THE MENDICANTS.

We are as mendicants who wait
Along the roadside in the sun. 
Tatters of yesterday and shreds
Of morrow clothe us every one.

And some are dotards, who believe
And glory in the days of old;
While some are dreamers, harping still
Upon an unknown age of gold.

Hopeless or witless!  Not one heeds,
As lavish Time comes down the way
And tosses in the suppliant hat
One great new-minted gold To-day.

Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks,
His beggar’s wisdom only sees
Housing and bread and beer enough;
He knows no other things than these.

O foolish ones, put by your care! 
Where wants are many, joys are few;
And at the wilding springs of peace,
God keeps an open house for you.

But that some Fortunatus’ gift
Is lying there within his hand,
More costly than a pot of pearls,
His dulness does not understand.

And so his creature heart is filled;
His shrunken self goes starved away. 
Let him wear brand-new garments still,
Who has a threadbare soul, I say.