Poems (Forrest)/Laughter

by Mabel Forrest

For works with similar titles, see Laughter.

LAUGHTER

To-day it is of laughter I would write.The babe that on a doting mother's kneeTilts its first carol at a world of tears,The schoolgirl, merry with her skipping-rope. . . .Maybe she finds between the rise and fallOf hempen arches, nearness to the sky(As though she kept a feather of lost wingsTo float her in the pathways of the blue).

Pan, sprightly in his green-leaf pavisade,Shaking the glossy twigs with mirth o' Spring,Silenus, jovial on the rotund cask,Because of some smart sally Bacchus made—Bacchus with vine-leaves in his ruddy hair,Impatient of the witchery of nymphs.

To-day it is of laughter I would write.The chuckle in the shallow of the streamsThat rollick down the mountain, where the fernPrimly withdraws itself from foolish jestAnd bends its head as though it wore a cowl,A Capuchin of bracken! And the laughOf black-browed witches in the moaning pines,Witches with apple cheeks and amber breasts,That ride a trotting broomstick at the clouds!And there toss, in their levity, pert wordsAt the serene aloofness of the stars! 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!