MAN'S LIMITATION

     Man says that He is jealous,
          Man says that He is wise,
     Man says that He is watching
          From His throne beyond the skies.

     But perchance the arch above us
          Is one great mirror's span,
     And the Figure seen so dimly
          Is a vast reflected man.

     If it is love that gave us
          A thousand blossoms bright,
     Why should that love not save us
          From poisoned aconite?

     If this man blesses sunshine
          Which sets his fields aglow,
     Shall that man curse the tempest
          That lays his harvest low?

     If you may sing His praises
          For health He gave to you,
     What of this spine-curved cripple,
          Shall he sing praises too?

     If you may justly thank Him
          For strength in mind and limb,
     Then what of yonder weakling —
          Must he give thanks to Him?

     Ah dark, too dark, the riddle!
          The tiny brain too small!
     We call, and fondly listen,
          For answer to that call.

     There comes no word to tell us
          Why this and that should be,
     Why you should live with sorrow,
          And joy should live with me.

MIND AND MATTER

     Great was his soul and high his aim,
     He viewed the world, and he could trace
     A lofty plan to leave his name
     Immortal  'mid the human race.
     But as he planned, and as he worked,
     The fungus spore within him lurked.

     Though dark the present and the past,
     The future seemed a sunlit thing.
     Still ever deeper and more vast,
     The changes that he hoped to bring.
     His was the will to dare and do;
     But still the stealthy fungus grew.

     Alas the plans that came to nought!
     Alas the soul that thrilled in vain!
     The sunlit future that he sought
     Was but a mirage of the brain.
     Where now the wit?   Where now the will?
     The fungus is the master still.

DARKNESS

     A gentleman of wit and charm,
          A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,
     One who was quick with hand or purse,
          To lift the burden of his kind.
     A brain well balanced and mature,
          A soul that shrank from all things
            base,
     So rode he forth that winter day,
          Complete in every mortal grace.

     And then — the blunder of a horse,
          The crash upon the frozen clods,
     And — Death?   Ah! no such dignity,
          But Life, all twisted and at odds!
     At odds in body and in soul,
          Degraded to some brutish state,
     A being loathsome and malign,
          Debased, obscene, degenerate.

     Pathology?   The case is clear,
          The diagnosis is exact;
     A bone depressed, a haemorrhage,
          The pressure on a nervous tract.
     Theology?   Ah, there's the rub!
          Since brain and soul together fade,
     Then when the brain is dead — enough!
          Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!

III — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

A WOMAN'S LOVE

     I am not blind — I understand;
          I see him loyal, good, and wise,
     I feel decision in his hand,
          I read his honour in his eyes.
     Manliest among men is he
          With every gift and grace to clothe
            him;
     He never loved a girl but me —
          And I — I loathe him! — loathe him!

     The other! Ah! I value him
          Precisely at his proper rate,
     A creature of caprice and whim,
          Unstable, weak, importunate.
     His thoughts are set on paltry gain —
          You only tell me what I see —
     I know him selfish, cold and vain;
          But, oh! he's all the world to me!

BY THE NORTH SEA

     Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
          We walked where tide and shingle
            meet;
     The long waves rolled from far away
          To purr in ripples at our feet.
     And as we walked it seemed to me
          That three old friends had met that
            day,
     The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
          And love, which is as old as they.

     Out seaward hung the brooding mist
          We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
     And marked the great Sun alchemist
          Turn all its leaden edge to gold,
     Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
          The gray below, the gold above,
     For so the grayest life may shine
          All golden in the light of love.

DECEMBER'S SNOW

     The bloom is on the May once more,
          The chestnut buds have burst anew;
     But, darling, all our springs are o'er,
          'Tis winter still for me and you.
     We plucked Life's blossoms long ago
     What's left is but December's snow.

     But winter has its joys as fair,
          The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
     The snow may lie upon our hair
          But never, darling, in our heart.
     Sweet were the springs of long ago
     But sweeter still December's snow.

     Yes, long ago, and yet to me
          It seems a thing of yesterday;
     The shade beneath the willow tree,
          The word you looked but feared to say.
     Ah! when I learned to love you so
     What recked we of December's snow?

     But swift the ruthless seasons sped
          And swifter still they speed away.
     What though they bow the dainty head
          And fleck the raven hair with gray?
     The boy and girl of long ago
     Are laughing through the veil of snow.

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

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