could mope through nights and days, And let the sickly faced old moon get all the love and praise. And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her shining trail, The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan and pale.

For she had lived there in the skies a million years or more, And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before. And by and by there came an end to this gay comet’s fun— p. 109She went a tiny bit too far—and vanished in the Sun! No more she swings her shining trail before the whole world’s sight, But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every night.

p. 109

p. 110THE LAST DANCE

p. 110

WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN

WHEN LOVE FOR HIS MAKER AWOKE IN MAN, THE DANCE BEGAN

The wave of the ocean, the leaf of the wood, In the rhythm of motion proclaim life is good. The stars are all swinging to metres and rhyme, The planets are singing while suns mark the time. The moonbeams and rivers float off in a trance, The Universe quivers—on, on with the dance!

Our partners we pick from the best of the throng In the ballroom of Life and go lilting along; We follow our fancy, and choose as we will, For waltz or for tango or merry quadrille; But ever one partner is waiting us all At the end of the programme, to finish the ball.

p. 111Unasked, and unwelcome, he comes without leave And calls when he chooses, ‘My dance, I believe?’ And none may refuse him, and none may say no; When he beckons the dancer, the dancer must go. You may hate him, and shun him; and yet in life’s ball For the one who lives well ’tis the best dance of all.

p. 111

p. 112A VAGABOND MIND

p. 112

Since early this morning the world has seemed surging With unworded rhythm, and rhyme without thought. It may be the Muses take this way of urging The patience and pains by which poems are wrought. It may be some 

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