MOTLEY I count the only wear

That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,

Who boldly smile upon despair

And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy’s eyes.

Singers should sing with such a goodly cheer

That the bare listening should make strong like wine,

At this unruly time of year,

The Feast of Valentine.

We do not now parade our “oughts”

And “shoulds” and motives¹ and beliefs in God.

Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts

Must keep the house, while gay thoughts go abroad,

Within we hold the wake for hopes deceased;

But in the public streets, in wind or sun,

Keep open, at the annual feast,

The puppet-booth of fun.

Our powers, perhaps, are small to please,

But even negro-songs and castanettes,

Old jokes and hackneyed repartees

Are more than the parade of vain regrets.

Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the wounded deer —

We shall make merry, honest friends of mine,

At this unruly time of year,

The Feast of Valentine.

I know how, day by weary day,

Hope fades, love fades, a thousand pleasures fade.

I have not trudged² in vain that way

On which life’s daylight darkens, shade by shade.

And still, with hopes decreasing, griefs increased,

Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,

Keep open, at the annual feast,

The puppet-booth of fun.

I care not if the wit be poor,

The old worn motley stained with rain and tears,

If but the courage still endure

That filled and strengthened hope in earlier years;

If still, with friends averted³, fate severe,

A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mine

To greet the unruly time of year,

The Feast of Valentine.

Priest, I am none of thine, and see

In the perspective of still hopeful youth

That Truth shall triumph over thee —

Truth to one’s self — I know no other truth.

I see strange days for thee and thine, O priest,

And how your

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