Chapter IV

I'll bet even Shakespeare's name was "Will,"
Until
He was so dead that he was great,
For fame can only isolate.
And better than "The Immortal Bard"
Were "Hello, Bill," and "Howdy, pard!"
Would he have swapped his comrades' laughter
For all the praise of ages after?

A SONG OF REST.

I have sung the song of striving,
Of the struggling, of arriving,
Of making of one's self a horse and mounting him and driving!
But now, let's cease;
Let's look for peace.
Let's forget the mark of money,
Let's forget the love of fame.
Life is ours and skies are sunny;
What is worry but a name?
Let's sit down and whiff and whittle,
Let us loaf and laugh a little.

(Here the youngest spoiled the rime
By running to me for a dime.)

I have sung the joy of doing,
Of the pleasure of pursuing,
And how life is like a woman and our role and rule is wooing,
But now, O let
Us cease to fret!
Let us cease our vain desiring;
Water's better than Cliquot;
What is honor but perspiring?
Wealth's another name for woe.
Let us spread out in the clover,
Just too lazy to turn over,--

(Here my wife brought in the news:
All the children need new shoes.)

I have sung the song of action,
Of the sweet of satisfaction
Of pounding, pounding, pounding opposition to a fraction,
But now, let's quit;
Let's rest a bit.
Money only makes us greedy,
Life's success is but a taunt.
He alone is never needy
Who has learned to laugh at want.
Let us loaf and laugh and wallow;
Too much work to even swallow--

(Here's the mail and bills are curses;
I must try to sell these verses.)

DESIRE.

Oh, the ripe, red apple which handily hung
And flaunted and taunted and swayed and swung,
Till it itched your fingers and tickled your tongue,
For it was juicy and you were young!
But you held your hands and you turned your head,
And you thought of the switch which hung in the shed,
And you didn't take it (or so you said),
But tell me--didn't you want to?

Oh, the rounded maiden who passed you by,
Whose cheek was dimpled, whose glance was shy,
But who looked at you out of the tail of her eye,
And flirted her skirt just a trifle high!
Oh, you were human and not sedate,
But you thought of the narrow way and straight,
And you didn't follow (or so you state),
But tell me--didn't you want to?

Oh, the golden chink and the sibilant sign
Which sang of honey and love and wine,
Of pleasure and power when the sun's a-shine
And plenty and peace in the day's decline!
Oh, the dream was schemed and the play was planned;
You had nothing to do but to reach your hand,
But you didn't (or so I understand),
But tell me--didn't you want to?

Oh, you wanted to, yes; and hence you crow
That the Want To within you found its foe
Which wanted you not to want to, and so
You were able to answer always "No."
So you tell yourself you are pretty fine clay
To have tricked temptation and turned it away;
But wait, my friend, for a different day!
Wait till you want to want to!

_Page 99._]

THERE IS, OH, SO MUCH.

There is oh, so much for a man to be
In nineteen hundred and now.
He may cover the world like the searching sea
In nineteen hundred and now.
He may be of the rush of the city's roar
And his song may sing where the condors soar,
Or may dip to the dark of Labrador,
In nineteen hundred and now.

There is oh, so much for a man to do
In nineteen hundred and now.
He may sort the suns of Andromeda through
In nineteen hundred and now.
Or he may strive, as a good man must,
For the wretch at his feet who licks the dust,
And never learn how to be even just
In nineteen hundred and now.

There is oh, so much for a man to learn
In nineteen hundred and now:
The least and the most he should trouble to earn
In nineteen hundred and now,
The message burned bright on the heavenly scroll,
The little he needs that his stomach be whole,
The vastness of vision to sate his soul,
In nineteen hundred and now.

There is oh, so much for a man to get
In nineteen hundred and now.
He may drench the earth in vicarious sweat
In nineteen hundred and now.
And his wealth may be but a lifelong itch,
While the lowliest digger within his ditch
May have gained the little to make him rich
In nineteen hundred and now.

There is oh, so much for a man to try
In nineteen hundred and now.
The sea is so deep and the hill so high
In nineteen hundred and now.
But sometimes we look at our little ball
Where the smallest is great and the greatest small
And wonder the why and the what of it all
In nineteen hundred and now.

There is oh, so much, so we work as we may
In nineteen hundred and now,
And loiter a little along the way
In nineteen hundred and now.
O, the honeybee works, but the honeybee clings
To the flowers of life and the honeybee sings!
Let us eat the sweet and forget the stings
In nineteen hundred and now!

HOW DID YOU DIE?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?