At t h ePl e i a d e sby Maurice V. Samuels.THE music sounds, my pulse responds;My neighbor who is young and fairHolds me in conversation’s bonds—And yet my spirit is not there!Around me merry friends I see,Gay laughter and saluting smile.Here in the Hall of JollityPresent, I still am in exile.Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;What she seems to display most clearIs not her real treasure-trove—She whispers to an inner ear.She pictures what remains unseen,Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,Tempts one with hope for nobler gainsAnd ever shows one higher rung!Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!Thy body gazed upon, Thy MindRegarded as an absentee!Thou who dost hand the cup of wineTo stir the heart till it let freeThe prisoned spirit—form divine—Art wronged by many a devotee!The music sweet, and she whose faceIs soft illumed, and echoed laugh,As gayety grows on apace,Fill not the goblet that I quaff.Somewhere, away, by Thee led on,Aware, alive, responsive still,I feel the tremulous light shed onMy spirit by that wanton will.We all, earth-bound most time, beholdThy shrine and there libation pour;Mistake the alloy for pure goldAnd mere appearance, to adore.For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad,We all in some way comprehendThy worship must be gay, not sad,Or Thou refusest to befriend.So here, with revelry and mirth,Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood,We greet Thee in Thy form of EarthAnd place before Thee wine and food!Maurice V. Samuels (signature)
by Maurice V. Samuels.
THE music sounds, my pulse responds;My neighbor who is young and fairHolds me in conversation’s bonds—And yet my spirit is not there!Around me merry friends I see,Gay laughter and saluting smile.Here in the Hall of JollityPresent, I still am in exile.Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;What she seems to display most clearIs not her real treasure-trove—She whispers to an inner ear.She pictures what remains unseen,Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,Tempts one with hope for nobler gainsAnd ever shows one higher rung!Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!Thy body gazed upon, Thy MindRegarded as an absentee!Thou who dost hand the cup of wineTo stir the heart till it let freeThe prisoned spirit—form divine—Art wronged by many a devotee!The music sweet, and she whose faceIs soft illumed, and echoed laugh,As gayety grows on apace,Fill not the goblet that I quaff.Somewhere, away, by Thee led on,Aware, alive, responsive still,I feel the tremulous light shed onMy spirit by that wanton will.We all, earth-bound most time, beholdThy shrine and there libation pour;Mistake the alloy for pure goldAnd mere appearance, to adore.For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad,We all in some way comprehendThy worship must be gay, not sad,Or Thou refusest to befriend.So here, with revelry and mirth,Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood,We greet Thee in Thy form of EarthAnd place before Thee wine and food!
THE music sounds, my pulse responds;My neighbor who is young and fairHolds me in conversation’s bonds—And yet my spirit is not there!
T
HE music sounds, my pulse responds;
My neighbor who is young and fair
Holds me in conversation’s bonds—
And yet my spirit is not there!
Around me merry friends I see,Gay laughter and saluting smile.Here in the Hall of JollityPresent, I still am in exile.
Around me merry friends I see,
Gay laughter and saluting smile.
Here in the Hall of Jollity
Present, I still am in exile.
Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;What she seems to display most clearIs not her real treasure-trove—She whispers to an inner ear.
Bohemia’s spell is subtly wove;
What she seems to display most clear
Is not her real treasure-trove—
She whispers to an inner ear.
She pictures what remains unseen,Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,Tempts one with hope for nobler gainsAnd ever shows one higher rung!
She pictures what remains unseen,
Sings songs too exquisite for tongue,
Tempts one with hope for nobler gains
And ever shows one higher rung!
Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!Thy body gazed upon, Thy MindRegarded as an absentee!
Bohemia, ah! how base-maligned!
Thy form mistaken oft for Thee!
Thy body gazed upon, Thy Mind
Regarded as an absentee!
Thou who dost hand the cup of wineTo stir the heart till it let freeThe prisoned spirit—form divine—Art wronged by many a devotee!
Thou who dost hand the cup of wine
To stir the heart till it let free
The prisoned spirit—form divine—
Art wronged by many a devotee!
The music sweet, and she whose faceIs soft illumed, and echoed laugh,As gayety grows on apace,Fill not the goblet that I quaff.
The music sweet, and she whose face
Is soft illumed, and echoed laugh,
As gayety grows on apace,
Fill not the goblet that I quaff.
Somewhere, away, by Thee led on,Aware, alive, responsive still,I feel the tremulous light shed onMy spirit by that wanton will.
Somewhere, away, by Thee led on,
Aware, alive, responsive still,
I feel the tremulous light shed on
My spirit by that wanton will.
We all, earth-bound most time, beholdThy shrine and there libation pour;Mistake the alloy for pure goldAnd mere appearance, to adore.
We all, earth-bound most time, behold
Thy shrine and there libation pour;
Mistake the alloy for pure gold
And mere appearance, to adore.
For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad,We all in some way comprehendThy worship must be gay, not sad,Or Thou refusest to befriend.
For know, Bohemia, Goddess glad,
We all in some way comprehend
Thy worship must be gay, not sad,
Or Thou refusest to befriend.
So here, with revelry and mirth,Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood,We greet Thee in Thy form of EarthAnd place before Thee wine and food!
So here, with revelry and mirth,
Gay song, quick toast and wassail mood,
We greet Thee in Thy form of Earth
And place before Thee wine and food!
Maurice V. Samuels (signature)