EF you's only got de powah fe' to blow a little whistle,
Keep ermong de people wid de whistles.
In the east the morning comes,
Hear the rollin' of the drums
On the hill.
But the heart that beat as they beat
THE sky of brightest gray seems dark
To one whose sky was ever white.
To one who never knew a spark,
BY the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens pass,
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust,
What of his loving, what of his lust?
What of his passion, what of his pain?
SILENCE, and whirling worlds afar
Through all encircling skies.
What floods come o'er the spirit's bar,
The Midnight wooed the Morning Star,
And prayed her: "Love come nearer;
Your swinging coldly there afar
To me but makes you dearer."
'GOOD-BYE,' I said to my conscience —
'Good-bye for aye and aye,'
And I put her hands off harshly,
THE gray dawn on the mountain top
Is slow to pass away.
Still lays him by in sluggish dreams,
Oh, awful Power whose works repel
The marvel of the earth's designs,--
I 'll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
Arcadia has trolley lines.