LAUGHTER
89
The laughter of the sun, as he sinks downWith crimson lips pressed to soft Twilight's mouth,Succeeded by the sportive Lady Moon,Whose strange, white whimsies make the brown earth smileTo silver ripples on the tawny hedge,And dimples on the face of the lagoon,And jocund darts into the night-dark scrub,Making a quivering joy of hidden trails. . . .
To-day it is of laughter I would write.Nasturtiums, winking through the blinding rain;Orange and yellow, or a tango red,Insisting that life, after all, is gayUnder the novice veil of fine white showers.Or the great-throated jollity of crowds,Who see their favourite comedian pranceBetween the velvet curtains of a stage—The laughter that makes strangers into friends. . . .
To-day it is of laughter I would write.Some trembling woman in a lover's arms,Whose laugh holds the first carol of the babe.The gaiety of schoolgirls, and the throbOf mating Springtime in the pipes of Pan,Laughing (she knows not why) because of allShe yields to him . . . for nothing else but Love!
To-day it is of laughter I would write.Laughter that sets a fool's cap on the browOf the grey-featured, iron face of Life!
