Not our hopes and not our fears;
Nor in aught they gain or lose
Seek a triumph or excuse.
For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, who
Heeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?
For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—
If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?
R. Kipling.
VII
WITH lengthening days we revert to the plan
Of stealing an hour from the night,
And all but the lamp-makers honour the man
Who taught us to husband our light.
There's a stir in the streets, and the feminine flocks
Grow denser the closer they near
The marts where the merchants exhibit their stocks
Of the newest and gayest of gear.
Bright purples of Cos and of Sidon unrolled
Work havoc in many a brain;
For whenever extravagance urges "Be bold !"
Economy whispers "Refrain!"
Collectors of taxes, impartial as Death,
Stalk forth on their pitiless rounds;
And the lark, inexhaustively lavish of breath,
In lyrical rapture abounds.
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