lacks two days of being a month— Here is a secret—since I made my will. Heigh ho! that's done too! I wonder why I did it? That I should make a will! Yet it may be That then and jump at this most crescent hour Heaven inspired the deed. As a mad younker I knew an aged man in Warwickshire Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," for sadness Of change, or passing time, or secret thoughts. If it was spring he sighed it, if 'twas fall, With drifting leaves, he looked upon the rain And with doleful suspiration kept This habit of his grief. And on a time As he stood looking at the flying clouds, I loitering near, expectant, heard him say it, Inquired, "Why do you say 'Ah, mercy me,' Now that it's April?" So he hobbled off And left me empty there. Now here am I! Oh, it is strange to find myself this age, And rustling like a peascod, though unshelled, And, like this aged man of Warwickshire, Slaved by a mood which must have breath—"Tra-la! That's what I say instead of "Ah, mercy me." For look you, Ben, I catch myself with "Tra-la" The moment I break sleep to see the day. At work, alone, vexed, laughing, mad or glad I say, "Tra-la" unknowing. Oft at table I say, "Tra-la." And 'tother day, poor Anne Looked long at me and said, "You say, 'Tra-la' Sometimes when you're asleep; why do you so?" Then I bethought me of that aged man Who used to say, "Ah, mercy me," but answered: "Perhaps I am so happy when awake The song crops out in slumber—who can say?" And Anne arose, began to keel the pot, But was she answered, Ben? Who know a woman? To-morrow is my birthday. If I die, Slip out of this with Bacchus for a guide, What soul would interdict the poppied way? Heroes may look the Monster down, a child Can wilt a lion, who is cowed to see Such bland unreckoning of his strength—but I, Having so greatly lived, would sink away Unknowing my departure. I have died A thousand times, and with a valiant soul Have drunk the cup, but why? In such a death To-morrow shines and there's a place to lean. But in this death that has no bottom to it, No bank beyond, no place to step, the soul Grows sick, and like a falling dream we shrink From that inane which gulfs us, without place For us to stand and see it. Yet, dear Ben, This thing must be; that's what we live to know Out of long dreaming, saying that we know it. As yeasty heroes in their braggart teens Spout learnedly of war, who never saw
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