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IRONY OF THINGS.
What makes the kitten hunt her shadow
And cheats the poet with his dream,
Or paints the moonbeam on the meadow
To mock the lover by its gleam?
Why does the deed by fine confusion
Think right will thus redeem its own,
Or sages merely seek delusion
And sacrifice to the Unknown?
The world for ever like the kitten
Pursues but phantoms to its fall,
And irony (wrought out or written)
Still reigneth at the heart of all.
And cheats the poet with his dream,
Or paints the moonbeam on the meadow
To mock the lover by its gleam?
Why does the deed by fine confusion
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Or sages merely seek delusion
And sacrifice to the Unknown?
The world for ever like the kitten
Pursues but phantoms to its fall,
And irony (wrought out or written)
Still reigneth at the heart of all.
What bids the hound yet hug and follow
The master strings as though it led,
And woman find a comfort hollow
In bliss that only drapes the dead?
Why are we tricked by cold reflection,
Who with our fingers bait the trap
Of sordid gain or false affection,
Which cannot hide the grave-like gap?
Earth, like a hound upon its questing
Mistakes for power the captive strings,
And heeds not in the march unresting
The mockery at the core of things.
The master strings as though it led,
And woman find a comfort hollow
In bliss that only drapes the dead?
Why are we tricked by cold reflection,
Who with our fingers bait the trap
Of sordid gain or false affection,
Which cannot hide the grave-like gap?
Earth, like a hound upon its questing
Mistakes for power the captive strings,
And heeds not in the march unresting
The mockery at the core of things.
What dupes with lies the dazzled reason
Until it deems we really live,
When nought is true but shame and treason
And death our grand prerogative?
Why do we plough a barren furrow
Or gather fruit of bitter wombs,
And harvest loss or sin, and burrow
In mines to be our golden tombs?
We build for that which cometh after,
And with our blood cement its gate;
Divine and dreadful is the Laughter,
Which guides us to a common fate.
Until it deems we really live,
When nought is true but shame and treason
And death our grand prerogative?
Why do we plough a barren furrow
Or gather fruit of bitter wombs,
And harvest loss or sin, and burrow
In mines to be our golden tombs?
We build for that which cometh after,
And with our blood cement its gate;
Divine and dreadful is the Laughter,
Which guides us to a common fate.
What makes us war for toys and trifles
To reap but sterile tears and stains,
And consecrate the Christian rifles
Which blow out Christian lives and brains?
Why must we toil in vain for others
Who lightly squander wealth of years,
And worship with a smile that smothers
But cannot kill our mortal fears?
Faith is a figment of intrusion,
Which sends no satisfying feast;
We feed on wind, and by illusion
God rules and governs man and beast.
To reap but sterile tears and stains,
And consecrate the Christian rifles
Which blow out Christian lives and brains?
Why must we toil in vain for others
Who lightly squander wealth of years,
And worship with a smile that smothers
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Faith is a figment of intrusion,
Which sends no satisfying feast;
We feed on wind, and by illusion
God rules and governs man and beast.
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