 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
125
The Ass
The enemy without—and he within!
You meet him on the stairs of your high tower
All simpers. At his nose he hath a flower,
Upon his tongue cheap honey; and his chin
Waggeth for ever. If we lose or win—
Please don't talk war! The witty luncheon hour,
The joyous week-end! Good souls, who could sour
So blithe a spirit, or prick so sleek a skin?
You meet him on the stairs of your high tower
All simpers. At his nose he hath a flower,
Upon his tongue cheap honey; and his chin
Waggeth for ever. If we lose or win—
Please don't talk war! The witty luncheon hour,
The joyous week-end! Good souls, who could sour
So blithe a spirit, or prick so sleek a skin?
Cheerfullest wight! It is his constant whim
To beam on Fate. All that he asks is love,
A salad, a glass of wine, music that charms,
A book, a friend, and “the blue sky above”—
And underneath, the everlasting arms
Of them that toil and groan and bleed for him.
To beam on Fate. All that he asks is love,
A salad, a glass of wine, music that charms,
A book, a friend, and “the blue sky above”—
And underneath, the everlasting arms
Of them that toil and groan and bleed for him.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |