Alan Sullivan May 1 1911


Alan Sullivan May 1 1911


“A book of verses underneath the bough,

A jug of wine—a loaf of bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the wilderness,

Then wilderness were Paradise enow.”

’Twas thus wrote Omar Khayham, did he guess That this quaint vision of his happiness Should draw our souls to it’s simplicity,

Should make us yearn for neither more nor less?

That ever as the weary caravan

Winds o’er the dry, the desert life of man, Trustful we say. To-morrow’s sun shall see Accomplished what we to-day began :—

And yet that morrow’s sun doth stoop and move From his high station in the heaven above, There’s one to-morrow less—and we, poor fools Have found nor bread, nor wine, nor song, nor love.

“1 sometimes think that never blows so red

The rose, as where some buried Caesar bled, That every hyacinth the garden wears Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head.”

Be it then true that this our grim old earth

Breeds out of Death some fresher, fairer birth, Draws in our fleshly tegument—until The seed of sorrow yields the fruit of mirth ;—

Then welcome Death—that I—who one time bore A lily on my breast in days of yore,

May seek corruption, till a stranger’s hand Shall pluck the lily that was Me—before.

Alan Sullivan