ART AND LIFE

When Art goes bounding, lean,

Up hill-tops fired green

To pluck a rose for life.

Life like a broody hen

Cluck-clucks him back again.

But when Art, imbecile,

Sits old and chill

On sidings shaven clean,

And counts his clustering

Dead daisies on a string

With witless laughter....

Then like a new Jill

Toiling up a hill

Life scrambles after.