love, And from grieving; Let the swift world pass us, You and me, Stilled from all aspiring,— Sinai nor Parnassus Longer worth desiring, Launa Dee! Just to live like lilies In the lake! Where no thought nor will is, To mistake! Just to lose the human Eyes that weep! Just to cease from seeming Longer man and woman! Just to reach the dreaming And the sleep! 

THE MENDICANTS.

 We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one. And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold. Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day. Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, His beggar's wisdom only sees Housing and bread and beer enough; He knows no other things than these. O foolish ones, put by your care! Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, God keeps an open house for you. But that some Fortunatus' gift Is lying there within his hand, More costly than a pot of pearls, His dulness does not understand. And so his creature heart is filled; His shrunken self goes starved away. Let him wear brand-new garments still, Who has a threadbare soul, I say. But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of God, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod. They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing. They too receive each one his Day; But their wise heart knows many things Beyond the sating of desire, Above the dignity of kings. One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair. Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars. 

THE MARCHING MORROWS.

 Now gird thee well for courage, My knight of twenty year, Against the marching morrows That fill the world with fear! The flowers fade before them; The summer leaves the hill; Their trumpets range the morning, And those who hear grow still. Like pillagers of harvest, Their fame is far abroad, As gray remorseless troopers That plunder and maraud. The dust is on their corselets; Their marching fills the world; With conquest after conquest Their banners are unfurled. They overthrow the battles Of every lord of war, From world-dominioned cities Wipe 

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