“What’s that?” said Beelzebub. 
“A poet,” said God. 
And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know.

THE MOTE.

Two shapes of august bearing, seraph tall,
Of indolent imperturbable regard,
Stood in the Tavern door to drink.  As the first
Lifted his glass to let the warm light melt
In the slow bubbles of the wine, a sunbeam,
Red and broad as smouldering autumn, smote
Down through its mystery; and a single fleck,
The tiniest sun-mote settling through the air,
Fell on the grape-dark surface and there swam.

Gently the Drinker with fastidious care
Stretched hand to clear the speck away.  “No, no!”—­
His comrade stayed his arm.  “Why,” said the first,
“What would you have me do?” “Ah, let it float
A moment longer!” And the second smiled. 
“Do you not know what that is?” “No, indeed.” 
“A mere dust-mote, a speck of soot, you think,
A plague-germ still unsatisfied.  It is not. 
That is the Earth.  See, I will stretch my hand
Between it and the sun; the passing shadow
Gives its poor dwellers a glacial period. 
Let it but stand an hour, it would dissolve,
Intangible as the color of the wine. 
There, throw it away now!  Lift it from the sweet
Enveloping flood it has enjoyed so well;”
(He smiled as only those who live can smile)
“Its time is done, its revelry complete,
Its being accomplished.  Let us drink again.”

IN THE HOUSE OF IDIEDAILY.

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!

There were always throats to sing
Down the river-banks with spring,

When the stir of heart’s desire
Set the sapling’s heart on fire.

Bobolincolns in the meadows,
Leisure in the purple shadows,

Till the poppies without number
Bowed their heads in crimson slumber,

And the twilight came to cover
Every unreluctant lover.

Not a night but some brown maiden
Bettered all the dusk she strayed in,

While the roses in her hair
Bankrupted oblivion there.

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!

But this hostelry, The Barrow,
With its chambers, bare and narrow,

Mean, ill-windowed, damp, and wormy,
Where the silence makes you squirmy,

And the guests are never seen to,
Is a vile place, a mere lean-to,

Not a traveller speaks well of,
Even worse than I heard tell of,

Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul. 
What a dwelling for a soul!

Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!

There the hearth was always warm,
From the slander of the storm.

There your comrade was your neighbor,
Living on to-morrow’s labor.

And the board was always steaming,
Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming.