Weeds by the Wall Part 11

I.

Now with the marriage of the lip and beaker Let Joy be born! and in the rosy shine, The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor, Let Care, the hag, be drowned! No more repine At all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!

Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher in Philosophies of old Anacreon And Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn, Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.

II.

Some lives need less than others.--Who can ever Say truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?

Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is never Sure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless; And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess.

"All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs; And in this world what has more right than Wrong?

Come! let us hush remembrance with a song, And learn with folly to be glad and wise.

III.

There was a poet of the East named Hafiz, Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us go Praising them too. And where good wine to quaff is And maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe; For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know, Where wine and love are not, where, sans disguise, Each one must lie in his strait bed apart, The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart, And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.

FAILURE.

There are some souls Whose lot it is to set their hearts on goals That adverse Fate controls.

While others win With little labor through life's dust and din, And lord-like enter in

Immortal gates; And, of Success the high-born intimates, Inherit Fame's estates....

Why is 't the lot Of merit oft to struggle and yet not Attain? to toil--for what?

Simply to know The disappointment, the despair and woe Of effort here below?

Ambitious still to reach Those lofty peaks, which men aspiring preach, For which their souls beseech:

Those heights that swell Remote, removed, and unattainable, Pinnacle on pinnacle:

Still yearning to attain Their far repose, above life's stress and strain, But all in vain, in vain!...

Why hath G.o.d put Great longings in some souls and straightway shut All doors of their clay hut?

The clay accurst That holds achievement back; from which, immersed, The spirit may not burst.

Were it, at least, Not better to have sat at Circe's feast, If afterwards a beast?

Than aye to bleed, To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed, And nevermore succeed?

THE CUP OF JOY.

Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their toy.

Who have given brain and heart To the thankless world of Art, And from Fame have won no part.

Who have labored long at thought; Starved and toiled and all for naught; Sought and found not what they sought....

Let our goblet be the skull Of a fool; made beautiful With a gold nor base nor dull:

Gold of madcap fancies, once It contained, that,--sage or dunce,-- Each can read whoever runs.

First we pour the liquid light Of our dreams in; then the bright Beauty that makes day of night.

Let this be the must wherefrom, In due time, the mettlesome Care-destroying drink shall come.

Folly next: with which mix in Laughter of a child of sin, And the red of mouth and chin.

These shall give the tang thereto, Effervescence and rich hue Which to all good wine are due.

Then into our cup we press One wild kiss of wantonness, And a glance that says not less.

Sparkles both that give a fine l.u.s.tre to the drink divine, Necessary to good wine.

Lastly in the goblet goes Sweet a love-song, then a rose Warmed upon _her_ breast's repose.

These bouquet our drink.--Now measure With your arm the waist you treasure-- Lift the cup and, "Here's to Pleasure!"

PESTILENCE.

High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat, 'Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon, Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon, A tawny horror coiling at her feet-- Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like, Until _her_ eyes shall bid him rise and strike.

MUSINGS.

INSPIRATION.

All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost, Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost; Only the chrism and sacrament of flame, Anointing all, inspired not all the same.

APPORTIONMENT.