Rosemary and Pansies/Lost Identity
LOST IDENTITY
I had a curious dream last night, So odd it set me pondering: Its lesson how to read aright My thoughts afar went wandering.
Methought by evil planet crossed, Or destiny unkind, That I myself myself had lost, And strove in vain to find.
I wandered here, I wandered there, Poor weary-footed elf! But found no traces anywhere Of my unlucky self.
I asked of every one I met If they had seen me lately; A man, said I, well made and set, Though not so very stately.
But none in country or in town Could tell where I had wandered, And so at last I sat me down, And o'er the puzzle pondered.
I've searched in every likely place Where he most oft is seen, Said I, but find of him no trace: What may this portent mean?
Every old bookshop hereabout In search of him I've entered, For that is where (without a doubt) His thoughts are chiefly centred.
To concert hall and theatre I've also gone—but vainly— Although 'tis there, his friends aver, He spends his leisure mainly.
Brown, Jones, and Robinson all say That they nowhere have seen him, Men of good faith and honour they, Who wouldn't lie to screen him.
He'd no misfortunes to lament, Nor ways nor means was tasked for: If cash he'd wanted I'd have lent Whatever sum he asked for.
And still the more for light I sought The mystery seemed to thicken, Till suddenly a brilliant thought Did in my cranium quicken:
He by some magical device As I was masquerading, And by this shabby artifice On my good name was trading.
But here the tangle grew too great To hope for its untying: I woke and found both him and me Upon the sofa lying.
(That "lying" comment doth invite, And 'tis indeed suggestive, But I'm not fibbing—honour bright! Nor had I been too festive.)
'Tis usual when a fable's told With a moral to equip it; So I my moral will unfold For you to read—or skip it.
Most men, departing from the rôles Nature for them intended, Have wandered widely from their goals, And to worse things descended.
So, in a sense, they lose themselves (They may or may not know it) And go about—poor witless elves— Like your bewildered poet.
Few are the lucky folk whose lines Are cast in places pleasant On whom benignant fortune shines With lustre ever crescent.
Alas! of these I am not one, But spend my life in groping After a path and finding none, Yet always vainly hoping.
On many paths I've sought to tread, But still turned back defeated; With countless projects in my head Have never one completed.
And now a life I feel was meant Some good deed to achieve, Can scarce do aught (so far 'tis spent) Its promise to retrieve.
Oh! that myself I might but find Ere fate rings down the curtain, And no more wander, sick and blind, Where naught is plain or certain!
1897