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Dyson Press Deck Of Cards And A Joker by J. C. B. Hebbard
WILLIAM CREER HARRISON OLYMPIAN Three score and ten, and then- Naught else but bitterness and pain Not so his burden his life is a chain Of links so tempered, forged and forged again That, leading all like Abou Ben, He heads the list mong all his loving men. KO shambling gait, nor crouching fate Of chimney corner if it rains Fearless of death as each year wanes Content with all, his life is consecrate. Kothing to him comes earIy or too late- A man who does, philosopher sedate, Beersheba to Dan the span In Stadium or Forum, new or old, . None better wore the laurel ei the gold Nor in the race of life none faster ran Or wear he cestus, wield a ladys fan. Behold a scholar, athlete-and a Man . A. D. Dawn came out of the East, waking the city Yet, in the morning light, some slept And dreamed perchance of peace. Then Nature disturbed her stillness, hluttering, earthquaking all to lifc- Not all some woke not on that awful morn, Nor since, on earth. And some slept soon again, for aye. The handiwork of man rocked, cradling, And wrecked upon the ground Midst roaring cataclysm. The sun rayed slanting, grimely, Through thickening atmosphere. Then for a time there was no sound But human heart beats. And in the luII a hundred flames Spit red in half the city, Reaching to the sky and spreading on To join in fiery phalanx, each the other. The sun at noon, looked down upon the fire As jealous of its heat and might As on and on the miles of conflagration spread In hungry, thirsty greed. Great God the world goes now it seemed. Men prayed and women shrieked despair, But some could rnouthc no sound. All day, all night, and then the next and next Great hero men brave battle made Without their weapons-water there was none The earthquake wrenched it from them. The Fire Chief lay dead, killed by falling walls- Sullivan the Great-Dennis Sullivan, a Man If ever one did live-a friend One who could look you in the eye unflinchingly A man unashamed and unafraid God rest his bold, brave soul And midst the wreck, men met And grasped each others hands, And gave, and loaned, and swore eternal friendship, And were brothers. But in a day, a week, a month- What is so little time between the two eternities Of past and future-forgot That there was any God save Mammon, And so returned to commerce and to hell, And garnered on again as they had done before. Let cataclysm come again And be it worse than that of April Tides, Tf gold be yet mans diety. There is a God And some will grovel when the Styx is crossed. Dont break your idols, Though their feet be clay Youll need them--een the pieces Some dark day. Instead of breaking, mend them Patch, and pare, and mould Until you have an idol better than the old. We turned the dice box, you and I, And I have often wondered why We took such chances on that summer day You won, but you have had to pay. The stake was Dollie-did we really care IVho shook the highest for her golden hair Or, if it only seemed her eyes of blue blade reckless more than eyes of other hue. You won, and then I bought the wine And toasted you in fullness of resign We left the club-house-fondest friends on earth Forgetting even Dollie in our vinous mirth. You married her and I stood by your side I saw you from the chancel proudly glide, Amid the rain of rice that showered free. Her blue eyes looked in mine, and shivered me. If I had turned that day the winning dice And married Doll-I know it isnt nice To wonder, if like me, youd have the bother Of knowing she wed one, but loved the other, There were, so archeologists and geologists tell us, ages of iron and stone and so forth. This is the Flippant Age, and so it will be known in all ages yet to come. There is no rest today...