Taoist

THOSE friends of Lao-Tzu, those wise old men

Dozing all day in lemon-silken robes,

With tomes of beaten jade spread knee to knee,

And pipe-stem, shining cold with silver, poised

In steaming play, and still a finger free

To dog the path of some forgotten pen;

Almost their bee-sweet ancient words incline

My mind to those old pagan ways, beloved

By mandarins and mages, now but dust

In drowsy pyramids. What creed is this,

Save that which those philosophers discussed

In gold pavilions, over musky wine?

"Repenting always of forgotten wrongs

Will never bring thy heart to rest, for thought

Repairs no whit of evil; rather cast

Thy meditations in that utter void

To which all human deeds resolve at last . . . ."

So runs the burden of their thousand songs.

Here, in this dark Star-Chamber of the soul,

You stand arraigned, O slayer of my heart . . .

But I am tired of hoarding up the grist

Of anger, and remember Lao-Tzu.

Revenge is empty to the Taoist,

And tears of penitence a futile toll!