|
The Ancient City
There was an ancient City,
stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and
for many a day
They paced from morn to eve
the crowded town,
And danced the night away.
I asked the cause: the aged
man grew sad:
They pointed to a building
gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step
inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it
all."
Yet what are all such
gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of
indices and surds?
x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3
But something whispered "It
will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play,
nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the
distasteful fun
For just a little while!"
A change came o'er my
Vision - it was night:
We clove a pathway through
a frantic throng:
The steeds, wild-plunging,
filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.
Within a marble hall a
river ran -
A living tide, half muslin
and half cloth:
And here one mourned a
broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her
wrath;
And here one offered to a
thirsty fair
(His words half-drowned
amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there
were many there),
A tooth-ache in each
spoonful.
There comes a happy pause,
for human strength
Will not endure to dance
without cessation;
And every one must reach
the point at length
Of absolute prostration.
At such a moment ladies
learn to give,
To partners who would urge
them over-much,
A flat and yet decided
negative -
Photographers love such.
There comes a welcome
summons - hope revives,
And fading eyes grow
bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks,
and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and
chicken.
Flushed with new life, the
crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and
mazy motion -
Much like a waving field of
golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.
And thus they give the
time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and
meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and
mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and
floors.
And One (we name him not)
that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and
that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in
solitude the hours,
Writing acrostic-ballads.
How late it grows! The hour
is surely past
That should have warned us
with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and
morning comes at last -
"Oh, Uncle, what's
o'clock?"
The Uncle gravely nods, and
wisely winks.
It MAY mean much, but how
is one to know?
He opens his mouth - yet
out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.
|
