No More Learning

Forth from the ill-lit tavern door
Where he had snoozed and boozed before
Stumbled his shambling feet.
A candle gave a guttering light,
And some one growled a hoarse good-night. . . .
The Tramp was in the street.

His boots were blistered, burst and patched,
He had a mildewed hat, which matched
His green, unlovely coat.
Once, too, he caught his foot and swore,
And, tho' the night was warm, he wore
A muffler at his throat.

And as he went his two lips moved
As if he muttered songs he loved
To an old, unquiet tune;
And as he went his eyes were glazed,
Twice, too, he paused like some one dazed
And hiccoughed at the moon.

Thus thro' the empty ways he passed
Until he reached the road at last
With fields at either hand,
And in the heavens bare and bright
The moon stood high and shed her light
Upon the silent land.

And lo! hard by, a lofty rick,
No chance was there of stab or prick,
It makes a pleasant bed.
And so, within, he burrowed deep,
And then upon a fragrant heap
He laid his unclean head.

The moon was swallowed by a cloud,
A nightingale sang sweet and loud
From the middle of a wood;
From its small body swelled a strain
Which flooded all the listening plain.
It trembled as it stood.
Upon his hay the Tramp awoke,
The golden fountain never broke,
The lovely sobbing strain.
The melody of that brown bird
Awoke a delicate, prisoned chord
Within his sodden brain.

The brain of him who lived remote
And dreamed strange things he never wrote
But hoarded in his mind.
He would not kill the dreams he loved
For sake of little things that moved
The passions of mankind.

Let the red torches toss and flare,
And all the long-stemmed trumpets blare,
Let brass beat loud on brass.
Let the Kings ride in victory,
Low comes the thought amidst the cry,
"These visions shall but pass. "

For, like reflections in a mirror,
Or empty bubbles on a river,
The striving world passed by.
What seemed to others worth the winning
Thro' strong desire or hate of sinning
Brought him no energy.

The thunder muttering on the hills,
The song of birds, the babbling rills,
The painted flowers and stars,
This pageantry of earth did seem
The parcel of a timeless dream.
He lived beyond the bars.

It was to him a vague mirage
Or memory of a storied page
With only that appeal;
But oftentimes a sound or sight
Would bring to him his own delight
More subtle than the real.

And with his sense of entity
Half lost, he raised a vacant eye
Into the empyrean.
And as he lay upon his back
The pealing centuries rolled back. . . .