The Spell of the Yukon and Other Verses Part 4

My Madonna

I haled me a woman from the street, Shameless, but, oh, so fair!

I bade her sit in the model's seat And I painted her sitting there.

I hid all trace of her heart unclean; I painted a babe at her breast; I painted her as she might have been If the Worst had been the Best.

She laughed at my picture and went away.

Then came, with a knowing nod, A connoisseur, and I heard him say; "'Tis Mary, the Mother of G.o.d."

So I painted a halo round her hair, And I sold her and took my fee, And she hangs in the church of Saint Hillaire, Where you and all may see.

Unforgotten

I know a garden where the lilies gleam, And one who lingers in the suns.h.i.+ne there; She is than white-stoled lily far more fair, And oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know a garret, cold and dark and drear, And one who toils and toils with tireless pen, Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary -- then He seeks the stars, pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it's strange; for, desolate and dim, Between these two there rolls an ocean wide; Yet he is in the garden by her side And she is in the garret there with him.

The Reckoning

It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant, With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want; To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pa.s.s, Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your gla.s.s.

It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill, But it's quite another matter when you Pay the bill.

It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent; To wear your glad rags always and to never save a cent; To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip; To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip; To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still, Till Nature calls a show-down, and you Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill -- get wise while yet you may, For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way; The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done, They're all put down; it's up to you to pay for every one.

So eat, drink and be merry, have a good time if you will, But G.o.d help you when the time comes, and you Foot the bill.

Quatrains

One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar, To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star; It lies with thee -- the choice is thine, is thine, To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

I answered Her: The choice is mine -- ah, no!

We all were made or marred long, long ago.

The parts are written; hear the super wail: "Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"

Blind fools of fate and slaves of circ.u.mstance, Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance.

From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance."

Chance! Oh, there is no chance! The scene is set.

Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette, Resumes his part. The G.o.ds will work the wires.

They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!

It's all decreed -- the mighty earthquake crash, The countless constellations' wheel and flash; The rise and fall of empires, war's red tide; The composition of your dinner hash.

There's no haphazard in this world of ours.

Cause and effect are grim, relentless powers.

They rule the world. (A king was shot last night; Last night I held the joker and both bowers.)

From out the mesh of fate our heads we thrust.

We can't do what we would, but what we must.

Heredity has got us in a cinch -- (Consoling thought when you've been on a "bust".)

Hark to the song where spheral voices blend: "There's no beginning, never will be end."

It makes us nutty; hang the astral chimes!

The tables spread; come, let us dine, my friend.

The Men That Don't Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new.

They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"

So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race.

And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half.

Life's been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh.

Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.