THE PESSIMIST

His body bulged with puppies — little eyes

Peeped out of every pocket, black and bright;

And with as innocent, round-eyed surprise

He watched the glittering traffic of the night.

“What this world's coming to I cannot tell,”

He muttered, as I passed him, with a whine —

“Things surely must be making slap for hell,

When no one wants these little dogs of mine.”

Mooning in the moonlight

I met a mottled pig,

Grubbing mast and acorn,

On the Gallows Rigg.

“Tell, oh, tell me truly,

While I wander blind,

Do your peepy pig's eyes

Really see the wind —

“See the great wind flowing

Darkling and agleam,

Through the fields of heaven,

In a crystal stream?

“Do the singing eddies

Break on bough and twig,

Into silvery sparkles

For your eyes, O pig?

“Do celestial surges

Sweep across the night,

Like a sea of glory

In your blessed sight?

“Tell, oh, tell me truly!”

But the mottled pig

Grubbing mast and acorns

Did not care a fig.