LAUGHTER
To-day it is of laughter I would write.The babe that on a doting mother's kneeTilts its first carol at a world of tears,The schoolgirl, merry with her skipping-rope. . . .Maybe she finds between the rise and fallOf hempen arches, nearness to the sky(As though she kept a feather of lost wingsTo float her in the pathways of the blue).
Pan, sprightly in his green-leaf pavisade,Shaking the glossy twigs with mirth o' Spring,Silenus, jovial on the rotund cask,Because of some smart sally Bacchus made—Bacchus with vine-leaves in his ruddy hair,Impatient of the witchery of nymphs.
To-day it is of laughter I would write.The chuckle in the shallow of the streamsThat rollick down the mountain, where the fernPrimly withdraws itself from foolish jestAnd bends its head as though it wore a cowl,A Capuchin of bracken! And the laughOf black-browed witches in the moaning pines,Witches with apple cheeks and amber breasts,That ride a trotting broomstick at the clouds!And there toss, in their levity, pert wordsAt the serene aloofness of the stars!
