The Joyful Wisdom (

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head, though wise ere to this pastime lent,

      Straight to the devil—no, to woman went!

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      A Pious Wish.

      "Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so

      And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!"

      Who thus reflects ye may as—picklock know.

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      Foot Writing.

      I write not with the hand alone,

      My foot would write, my foot that capers,

      Firm, free and bold, it's marching on

      Now through the fields, now through the papers.

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      "Human, All-too-Human." …

      Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust,

      Trusting the future where yourself you trust,

      Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl,

      Or are you like Minerva's darling owl?

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      To my Reader.

      Good teeth and a digestion good

      I wish you—these you need, be sure!

      And, certes, if my book you've stood,

      Me with good humour you'll endure.

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      The Realistic Painter.

      "To nature true, complete!" so he begins.

      Who complete Nature to his canvas wins?

      Her tiniest fragment's endless, no constraint

      Can know: he paints just what his fancy pins:

      What does his fancy pin? What he can paint!

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      Poets' Vanity.

      Glue, only glue to me dispense,

      The wood I'll find myself, don't fear!

      To give four senseless verses sense—

      That's an achievement I revere!

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      Taste in Choosing.

      If to choose my niche precise

      Freedom I could win from fate,

      I'd be in midst of Paradise—

      Or, sooner still—before the gate!

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      The Crooked Nose.

      Wide blow your nostrils, and across

      The land your nose holds haughty sway:

      So you, unhorned rhinoceros,

      Proud mannikin, fall forward aye!

      The one trait with the other goes:

      A straight pride and a crooked nose.

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      The Pen is Scratching. …

      The pen is scratching: hang the pen!

      To scratching I'm condemned to sink!

      I grasp the inkstand fiercely then

      And write in floods of flowing ink.

      How broad, how full the stream's career!

      What luck my labours doth requite!

      'Tis true, the writing's none too clear—

      What then? Who reads the stuff I write?

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      Loftier Spirits.

      This man's climbing up—let us praise him—

      But that other we love

      From aloft doth eternally move,

      So above even praise let us raise him,

      He comes from above!

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      The Sceptic Speaks.

      Your life is half-way o'er;

      The clock-hand moves; your soul is thrilled with fear,

      It roamed to distant shore

      And sought and found not, yet you—linger here!

      Your life is half-way o'er;

      That hour by hour was pain and error sheer:

      Why stay? What seek you more?

      "That's what I'm seeking—reasons why I'm here!"

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      Ecce Homo.

      Yes, I know where I'm related,

      Like the flame, unquenched, unsated,

      I consume myself and glow:

      All's turned to light I lay my hand on,

      All to coal that I abandon,

      Yes, I am a flame, I know!

      

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