"Seasons bloom and seasons wither; dark or bright, they cannot last;"
I suppose, my noble Brereton, you think that patter "fast;"
But it's stale as hash-house "resurrection" remnants of the past.
Let the seasons slide? Of course, sir; 'cos you've got to and they will!
Not the seasons are the matter, but the chances that they kill;
He's a fool who dreams past chances are the present chances still!
Go it, merry, Brerry gallant, go it rattling while you're young,
Tell the girls their kisses bellows-up the love-songs on your tongue,
Tell your mates, and fool yourself, too, that "we never can go bung."
Look around you, Brerry songster, where the friends are of your past;
Men whose gifts of brilliant promise limned a future ne'er outclassed;
Read that future in their present. Don't it make you stand aghast?
Dux, who should have been a Potentate, by future then read clear,
Lurks at corners on the roadway of the daily path you steer,
Tugs your elbow softly, humbly, as he tries to "bite your ear."
Same with Vox and Jus and others, who were leaders in their prime,
And who held, like you, my Brerry, that the present is a chime,
That the flow'rs and girls and rainbows are a merry pantomime.
'Cos their hearts are light and open, opened they their purses, too,
'Cos they whooped the whoop of "Now's-the-time," they paid the reck'ning due,
Let us hope, my Brerry buster, such a fate won't happen you.
"Seasons bloom and season wither!" Yes, but Man has only one
Set of seasons in his lifetime -- Spring and Summer -- then he's done;
Then comes harvesting and winter! Where's his chance of future fun?
If he's grabbed his pile and kept it, shut his ears to woes of peasant;
Made his joys from others' sorrows, shut his eyes to things unpleasant;
Then he may (if glut permit it in the bloated!) "sing the present."
Men don't bloom again when once they start to wither; Winter's blast
Never starts the Spring's soft zephyr in a life once overcast --
And the wrecks -- that's all the Poets -- thus can only "sing the past."
Blood is ichor! marrow's callous! present outlooks make us freeze --
Sing us wine and sing us Women -- time has always room for these;
Let our sinned joys boil to thrill us. Sing the Past; its Memories!
First published in The Bulletin, 15 February 1896
Note: This poem refers to the poem
from last week. "The Dipsomaniac" was a pen-name for Henry C. Cargill.
