THE COMPANIONLESS
There be souls born but to suffer, souls companionless, alone,
Spirits that the race refuses to acknowledge as its own;
Fated ones, predoomed to sorrow, in the wide lands without home,
Foreigners in every nation, strangers wheresoe'er they roam.
Mothered in the womb of morning, cradled in the arms of night,
One with forest, field and flower, moon and star and shade and light;
Lovers of all loveliness, red-hearted, with the dream afire,
Banished from Altruria to the Deserts of Desire.
Wanderers from other spheres, here on the Earthland gone astray,
Wingéd children of the heavens damned to dungeons made of clay—
In the midst of plenty, hungered—on the watersheds, athirst—
In the halls of pleasure, wearied—by their very beauty curst.
Sons of Life and Power striving Death and Weakness to evict,
Battling with the portless oceans on a crewless derelict;
Daring, strong and splendid captains, lost at last in seas unknown—
Kismet-caught—doom-driven—compassless—companionless—alone.
✤ ✤ ✤ ✤
'TAINT NO USE
I wuz alluz a sort o' sinner, sort o' outcas' fum my kind;
One o' these here foolish critters what is born ter dollars blind;
What never 'preciated workin' 'tel your heart wuz fit ter bus',
Your sperrit cankered, jes' becuz some other feller sed you mus'.
Never keered a dern 'bout ennytking, excep' a woman's love,
The gurgle o' the waters an' the sof' notes o' the matin' dove;
Never had no temple, nur relegion, nur belief, nur shrine,
Excep' I've alluz loved ole mother earth an' made her heartaches mine.
Never yit could understan' why folkes kills theyselves ter live;
The sense o' handin' down ter children what all knows its death ter give;
The foolishness o' 'stroying every neighbor's field an' home an' hearth
By turnin' man-hogs loose ter waller in the gardens o' the earth.
Never had no wisdom neither,—been a idler all my days,
A dreamer chasin' jack-o-lanters up imagination's ways;
An' I 'spects, when I is dyin', I'll ask Gabe ter fold his wings,
So ez I kin see the mockin' bird a dancin' whiles he sings.
I wuz alluz a sort o' sinner, sort o' outcas' fum my kind;
One o' these here foolish critters what is born ter dollars blind.
But 'taint no use ter fret nur kick, becuz, they's trouble every time
God goes an' hitches up a human ter the comet-car o' rhyme.
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