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20
POEMS
For your brow is lineless
But your heart is old,
And the wind is rising
Fast, and growing cold,
And in the crowded rooms
Swells the merry din.
Clasp your cloak’s neck, come,
Let us go within.
FIN-DE-SIÈCLE
You say the meadow-grass is green,
You say the heavens are blue,
The birds sing free on every tree;
All this is very true,
No doubt—
But what of me and you?
But what of you and me? Ah, yes—
“About an even chance!”
Methinks, dear soul, upon the whole
God leads us a merry dance.
I’ faith,
God leads us a merry dance.
