Part 49 (1/2)
ODE TO A FOOL
”Let a bear robbed of her whelps meet a man, rather than a fool in his folly.”--Prov. 17th, 12th.
Singular insect! Here I watch thee spin Upon my pin; And know that thou hast not the least idea I have thee here.
Strange is thy nature! For thou mayst be slain Once and again; Dismembered, tortured, torn with tortures hot-- Yet know it not!
As well pour hate and scorn upon the dead As on thy head.
While I discuss thee here I plainly see Thee sneer at me.
Marvellous creature! What mysterious power In idle hour Arranged the mighty elements whence came Thy iron frame!
In every item of thy outward plan So like a man!
But men are mortal, dying every day, And thou dost stay.
The nations rise and die with pa.s.sing rule, But thou, O Fool!
Livedst when drunken Noah asleeping lay, Livest to-day.
Invulnerable Fool! Thy mind Is deaf and blind; Impervious to sense of taste and smell And touch as well.
Thought from without may vainly seek to press Thy consciousness; Man's hard-won knowledge which the ages pile But makes thee smile; Thy vast sagacity and blatant din Come from within; Thy voice doth fill the world from year to year, Helpless we hear.
Wisdom and wit 'gainst thee have no avail; O Fool--All Hail!
THE FORERUNNER
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER
1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY
Volume 1. No. 5 MARCH, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman
How many a useless stone we find Swallowed in that capacious, blind, Faith-swollen gullet, our ancestral mind!
THE SANDS
It runs--it runs--the hourgla.s.s turning; Dark sands glooming, bright sands burning; I turn--and turn--with heavy or hopeful hands; So must I turn as long as the Voice commands; But I lose all count of the hours for watching the sliding sands.
Or fast--or slow--it ceases turning; Ceases the flow, or bright or burning-- ”What have you done with the hours?” the Voice demands.
What can I say of eager or careless hands?-- I had forgotten the hours in watching the sliding sands.
A MIDDLE-SIZED ARTIST