Poems (Duer)/The Yellow Age
THE YELLOW AGE.
This is the age of grasping hearts and hands, Of hurrying feet and greedy, watchful eyes Turned to the worship of the Golden Calf, Sneering down other idols with a laugh, Throwing down other prizes for this prize; Bowing before the priest who understands Its myst'ries best in this and other lands.
These are the glittering days of gilded show, Of brazen tongues—of envy, jaundice-eyed And covetous of all that gold controls: This is the age of brains instead of souls—The yellow age, where purses measure pride. Even the flame of love, blown to and fro By jealous winds, burns with a saffron glow.
Look well, O world, before Time turns the page, The gaudy pageant passes through your street; The envious apes rage in your market place— Science and art are breathless in the race For fortune, where for fame they did compete. The yellow fever of the yellow age Has spread from slave to king, from fool to sage.
C. D.