Thou writest, paintest, stays: that does not die: When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy- For joy, as this is in desire for joy, To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us. We burst there as the worm into the fly, Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But, no! He must have done so were it possible! Live long and happy, and in that thought die, Glad for what was. Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus- we have heard his fame He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrines could be held by no sane man. THE TWINS. "Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you." 1. GRAND rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables - flowers on furze, The better the uncouther: Do roses stick like burrs? 2. A beggar asked an alms One day at an abbey-door, Said Luther; but, seized with qualms, The Abbot replied, "We're poor! 3. "Poor, who had plenty once, "When gifts fell thick as rain: "But they give us nought, for the nonce, "And how should we give again?" 4. Then the beggar, "See your sins! "Of old, unless I err, "Ye had brothers for inmates, twins, "Date and Dabitur." 5. "While Date was in good case "Dabitur flourished too: "For Dabitur's lenten face, "No wonder if Date rue." 6. "Would ye retrieve the one? 66 "Try and make plump the other! "When Date's penance is done, "Dabitur helps his brother." 7. "Only, beware relapse!" The Abbot hung his head. This beggar might be, perhaps, An angel, Luther said. POPULARITY. 1. STAND still, true poet that you are, I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us. When afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star. 2. My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of His which leads you, Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless He needs you Just saves your light to spend? 3. His clenched Hand shall unclose at last I know, and let out all the beauty. My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past. |