 | Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight |  |
170
CXXVIII. THE GOURD AND THE PALM.
“How old art thou?” said the garrulous gourd
As o'er the palm-tree's crest it poured
Its spreading leaves and tendrils fine,
And hung a bloom in the morning shine.
“A hundred years!” the palm-tree sighed.
“And I,” the saucy gourd replied,
“Am at the most a hundred hours,
And overtop thee in the bowers!”
As o'er the palm-tree's crest it poured
Its spreading leaves and tendrils fine,
And hung a bloom in the morning shine.
“A hundred years!” the palm-tree sighed.
“And I,” the saucy gourd replied,
“Am at the most a hundred hours,
And overtop thee in the bowers!”
Through all the palm-tree's leaves there went
A tremor as of self-content.
“I live my life,” it whispering said;
“See what I see, and count the dead;
And every year of all I've known,
A gourd above my head has grown,
And made a boast like thine to-day,
And here I stand—but where are they?”
A tremor as of self-content.
“I live my life,” it whispering said;
“See what I see, and count the dead;
And every year of all I've known,
A gourd above my head has grown,
And made a boast like thine to-day,
And here I stand—but where are they?”
| Interludes and Undertones, or, Music at Twilight | |