No More Learning

It was the tramp who snored.




The Black Dwarf.


Certain it is that of those qualities
We are enamoured which we most do lack.
So he, fantastic out of human guise,
Bent, broken, bowed, small, apish, humped of back,
Marred in the mint, perfection's contrary,
To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall,
And--the great artist without jealousy--
Knew beauty more than all.

Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness,
But if they pined thro' blight or thirsty want,
Or spiteful wind had made his blossoms less,
Or mouse or mole had gnawed some tender plant,
Then seemed the edge of life all dull and blunt,
And passion thwarted tore his twisted frame,
And, 'neath the penthouse of the shaggy front,
The yellow eyes flashed flame.

But most he joyed whenever country maid,
Prizing his taste, or damsel highly born
To judgment came, and anxiously displayed
For him submission as for others scorn.
Then, peering keenly from his peat-roofed home,
Calm in his power he scanned her as he chose,
And, if she pleased, the swart and twisted gnome
Gave her a white, white rose.




To an Elephant.


Lord of the trunk and fan-like ears,
Wisest and mightiest next to man,
I see thee hence a million years
Ruling the earth with milder plan.
Dwellers above, beneath the ground,
Shall live contented in that time;
No subtle growths shall e'er confound
Their natural joy and instinct prime.

Not such as those who planned to nought
And groped (wise fools! ) beyond their ken
Scarce knowing what they loved or sought--
Those subtle growths, those weary men--
Shall dwell earth's inexperienced brood
In natural joy and instinct prime;
But without evil, without good,
Be each new moment, not all time.

Jungles shall grow where cities stood,
The mighty rivers roar unbridged
The hungry tiger seek his food,
Save for thy bidding, privileged,
Where (weary subtle growths) we bore
Our burden of humanity;
For conscious mind shall work no more
And man himself have ceased to be.




SONGS.




The Palmer's Song.
I will fling ambition away
Like a vain and glittering toy;
With tristful weeping will I pray
And wash my sin's alloy.
I will wear the palmer's weed
And walk in the sandal shoon.
I will walk in the sun by day
And sleep beneath the moon.
I will set forth as the bells toll
And travel to the East,
Because of a sin upon my soul
And the chiding of a priest.




The Song of the Old Men.


We are the old, old men,
Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics,
But now we are three score and ten
Or upwards--mere relics
Of the fine strong pageant of youth,
Which time in his spite and unruth
Has taken.
We are dim and palsied and shaken,
Ah! me--forsaken.

Where are the fair white maids
With flower faces and carriage
Straight as new-smithied blades,
Ripe, ready for marriage?
Now all are withered and grey,
Their beauty has passed away,
Ah! madness--
They are bent like hoops with sadness
And the world's badness.

Our voices are hoarse and drear,
As we sit and mumble together,
We have no good tidings to hear
We had sooner have never
(So we grumble together) been born,
That are so sick and forlorn;
Just shadows--
But once bright fishers of shallows,
Swift hunters of meadows.

We are the old, old men,
We have seen and endured much trouble;
It has turned us children again,
And bent us double.
Now we sit like a circle of stones,
And hear in each others' moans
Ill token.
For our sweetest thoughts were broken
Or else unspoken.




The Song of Snorro.