O Mr. Moon, Just see the clover! Soon we'll be going Where the Gray Goose went When all her money Was spent, spent, spent! Down through the clover, When the revel's over! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down?
O Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? Down where the Good Folk Dance in a ring, Down where the Little Folk Sing? Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down?
Hem and Haw were the sons of sin, Created to shally and shirk; Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on While God did all the work.
Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig, For both had the dull, dull mind; And whenever they found a thing to do, They yammered and went it blind.
Hem was the father of bigots and bores; As the sands of the sea were they. And Haw was the father of all the tribe Who criticise to-day.
But God was an artist from the first, And knew what he was about; While over his shoulder sneered these two, And advised him to rub it out.
They prophesied ruin ere man was made: "Such folly must surely fail!" And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord, He's better without a tail?"
And still in the honest working world, With posture and hint and smirk, These sons of the devil are standing by While Man does all the work.
They balk endeavor and baffle reform, In the sacred name of law; And over the quavering voice of Hem Is the droning voice of Haw.
That painter has not with a careless smutch Accomplished his despair?--one touch revealing All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling, Into the canvas that without that touch Showed of his love and labor just so much Raw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing! What poet has not found his spirit kneeling A sudden at the sound of such or such Strange verses staring from his manuscript, Written he knows not how, but which will sound Like trumpets down the years? So Accident Itself unmasks the likeness of Intent, And ever in blind Chance's darkest crypt The shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found.
Thought is a garden wide and old For airy creatures to explore, Where grow the great fantastic flowers With truth for honey at the core.
There like a wild marauding bee Made desperate by hungry fears, From gorgeous _If_ to dark _Perhaps_ I blunder down the dusk of years.
There is no escape by the river, There is no flight left by the fen; We are compassed about by the shiver Of the night of their marching men. Give a cheer! For our hearts shall not give way. Here's to a dark to-morrow, And here's to a brave to-day!