Doubt and other things, verse and illustrations . ur Art,Your pen and ink you squander. Dear me, today how rhyme will stray!How far on its tide Ive floated!For what I really meant to sayWas—write what will be quoted. (December 17, 1915. Capri.) [125] Digitized by Microsoft® The Hermit Gentle Hermit, dost thou dwell Contented in thy little cell? *Aye, Pilgrim, once I followed long A Siren, listening to her song. Yet never could I reach her side, And now contented I abide. But tell me, Pilgrim, why dost roam So far from kindred, far from home? Hermit, I see beyond yon sky That cloudless lands fo
Doubt and other things, verse and illustrations . ur Art,Your pen and ink you squander. Dear me, today how rhyme will stray!How far on its tide Ive floated!For what I really meant to sayWas—write what will be quoted. (December 17, 1915. Capri.) [125] Digitized by Microsoft® The Hermit Gentle Hermit, dost thou dwell Contented in thy little cell? *Aye, Pilgrim, once I followed long A Siren, listening to her song. Yet never could I reach her side, And now contented I abide. But tell me, Pilgrim, why dost roam So far from kindred, far from home? Hermit, I see beyond yon sky That cloudless lands forever lie; The road is long and short the day So I must hasten on my way. Stay, Pilgrim, stay, tis almost night. Nay, Hermit, nay—beyond tis bright. Do Sirens songs but lead astray?The Hermits cell prove but his tomb?Did the Pilgrim find the lightOr was he lost in the nights gloom?Are those bright lands beyond the skyBut dreams and not reality?Can Pilgrim tell—can Hermit say,That only Sirens lead astray? ^?^ [126] Digitized by Microsoft®. Luna Lone gazer on Earths dreaming night,Not always with vinmixed delightWe gaze on Thee, for thy pale raysToo often bring sad memoriesOf things forever gone and happier days. [127] Digitized by Microsoft® and Doctors, in hunting a disease,Think they have killed or maimed itWhen truth to tell theyve merely foundAn old one and renamed it. So doctors of Divinity Will go on to infinity Trying to cure our moral ills Not with real bread, but with bread-pills. They may be right but I feel sureThat Life for us is a long cureOf an inherited disease,And doubt if Dr. Death gives ease.
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Keywords: ., bookauthorvedderel, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, bookyear1922
