Percy Mackaye
Old Age, the irrigator,Digs our bosoms straighter,More workable and deeper stillTo turn the ever-running millOf nights and days. He makes a troughTo drain our passions off,That used so beautiful to lieVariegated to the sky,On waste moorlands of the heart—Haunts of idleness, and artStill half-dreaming. All their piedness,Rank and wild and shallow wideness,Desultory splendors, heStraightens conscientiouslyTo a practicable sluiceMeant for workaday, plain use.All the mists of early dawn,Twilit marshes, being goneWith their glamor, and their stench,There is left—a narrow trench.
Old Age, the irrigator,Digs our bosoms straighter,More workable and deeper stillTo turn the ever-running millOf nights and days. He makes a troughTo drain our passions off,That used so beautiful to lieVariegated to the sky,On waste moorlands of the heart—Haunts of idleness, and artStill half-dreaming. All their piedness,Rank and wild and shallow wideness,Desultory splendors, heStraightens conscientiouslyTo a practicable sluiceMeant for workaday, plain use.All the mists of early dawn,Twilit marshes, being goneWith their glamor, and their stench,There is left—a narrow trench.
Old Age, the irrigator,Digs our bosoms straighter,More workable and deeper stillTo turn the ever-running millOf nights and days. He makes a troughTo drain our passions off,That used so beautiful to lieVariegated to the sky,On waste moorlands of the heart—Haunts of idleness, and artStill half-dreaming. All their piedness,Rank and wild and shallow wideness,Desultory splendors, heStraightens conscientiouslyTo a practicable sluiceMeant for workaday, plain use.All the mists of early dawn,Twilit marshes, being goneWith their glamor, and their stench,There is left—a narrow trench.
Old Age, the irrigator,
Digs our bosoms straighter,
More workable and deeper still
To turn the ever-running mill
Of nights and days. He makes a trough
To drain our passions off,
That used so beautiful to lie
Variegated to the sky,
On waste moorlands of the heart—
Haunts of idleness, and art
Still half-dreaming. All their piedness,
Rank and wild and shallow wideness,
Desultory splendors, he
Straightens conscientiously
To a practicable sluice
Meant for workaday, plain use.
All the mists of early dawn,
Twilit marshes, being gone
With their glamor, and their stench,
There is left—a narrow trench.
Long ago, in the young moonlight,I lost my heart to a hero;Strong and tender and stern and right,Darker than night,And terribler than Nero.Heigh, but he was dear, O!And there, to bind our fellowship,I laughed at him; and a moment after,I laughed again till he bit his lip,For the test of love is laughter.“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!Gloom and wisdom and right and prideCast them aside,And kiss, and cure our quarrel.Never mind the moral!”Alas! with strange and saddened eyesHe looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter,To feel the flush of his dark surprise;For the zest of love is laughter.Long ago, in the old moonlight,I lost my hero and lover;Strong and tender and stern and right,Never shall nightNor day his brow uncover.Ah, my heart, that is over!Yet still, for joy of the fellowshipThat bound us both through the years long after,I laugh to think how he bit his lip;For the test of love—And the best of love—is laughter.
Long ago, in the young moonlight,I lost my heart to a hero;Strong and tender and stern and right,Darker than night,And terribler than Nero.Heigh, but he was dear, O!And there, to bind our fellowship,I laughed at him; and a moment after,I laughed again till he bit his lip,For the test of love is laughter.“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!Gloom and wisdom and right and prideCast them aside,And kiss, and cure our quarrel.Never mind the moral!”Alas! with strange and saddened eyesHe looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter,To feel the flush of his dark surprise;For the zest of love is laughter.Long ago, in the old moonlight,I lost my hero and lover;Strong and tender and stern and right,Never shall nightNor day his brow uncover.Ah, my heart, that is over!Yet still, for joy of the fellowshipThat bound us both through the years long after,I laugh to think how he bit his lip;For the test of love—And the best of love—is laughter.
Long ago, in the young moonlight,I lost my heart to a hero;Strong and tender and stern and right,Darker than night,And terribler than Nero.Heigh, but he was dear, O!
Long ago, in the young moonlight,
I lost my heart to a hero;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
Darker than night,
And terribler than Nero.
Heigh, but he was dear, O!
And there, to bind our fellowship,I laughed at him; and a moment after,I laughed again till he bit his lip,For the test of love is laughter.
And there, to bind our fellowship,
I laughed at him; and a moment after,
I laughed again till he bit his lip,
For the test of love is laughter.
“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!Gloom and wisdom and right and prideCast them aside,And kiss, and cure our quarrel.Never mind the moral!”
“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;
“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!
Gloom and wisdom and right and pride
Cast them aside,
And kiss, and cure our quarrel.
Never mind the moral!”
Alas! with strange and saddened eyesHe looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter,To feel the flush of his dark surprise;For the zest of love is laughter.
Alas! with strange and saddened eyes
He looked on me; and my mirth grew dafter,
To feel the flush of his dark surprise;
For the zest of love is laughter.
Long ago, in the old moonlight,I lost my hero and lover;Strong and tender and stern and right,Never shall nightNor day his brow uncover.Ah, my heart, that is over!
Long ago, in the old moonlight,
I lost my hero and lover;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
Never shall night
Nor day his brow uncover.
Ah, my heart, that is over!
Yet still, for joy of the fellowshipThat bound us both through the years long after,I laugh to think how he bit his lip;For the test of love—And the best of love—is laughter.
Yet still, for joy of the fellowship
That bound us both through the years long after,
I laugh to think how he bit his lip;
For the test of love—
And the best of love—is laughter.