If Jasper saw a silver crescent declining Tipped on a mountain, pale in a cloudy sky, He would take off his hat and bow with a mellowish feigning, And say, "O Lady, are you too about to die?" Or when in the midmost sparkle of starriest August Aerolites raced with a fatal extravagant glow, He would shift both feet on the porch-rail, and swagger, "Oh, now must The stars puff out, just as little men have to go." Jasper was curious, prone on decaying timber Plucking the corpse of an oak-tree, uprooted and stark. "The old one found him a-cold, in the autumn less limber," Said Jasper, "My fragile finger will crumble his bark." "But why should I howl a complaint uprising to heaven, Among these my fellow-citizens of woe, Who flash and change or fall and perish, yet even Out of their hurt will protest not, but silently go. "When I am laid on the couch of my last breathing Bring jolly musicians hitherward, well-paid, Let boys and girls crowd under my window for dancing. And when I am gone let them each wear a bright cockade. "For perhaps I found a music on roads and hills, And my way on earth was the drifting way of a dance. Let the lift of my colors flash through your long quadrilles. Let the songs I knew speed warm to your utterance." |