AUGUST 8th
A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather,Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.Science announced nonentity and art admired decay;The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay.Round us in antic order their crippled vices came—Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom,Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.Life was a flower that faded, and death a drone that stung;The world was very old indeed when you and I were young!They twisted even decent sins to shapes not to be named:Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed.Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus;When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us.Children we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as we,High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea.Fools as we were in motley, all jangled and absurd,When all church bells were silent, our cap and bells were heard.
'The Man who was Thursday.'
'The Man who was Thursday.'
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