SOME pious men are on this earth, who think that any kind of mirth is sacrilege or sin, and they would tumble from their perch if any one should enter church and wear a cheerful grin. So gloomy is their house of prayer, you'd almost think a corpse was there, a-waiting for the hearse; all festive words their souls annoy, and they will squelch the signs of joy, with chapter and with verse. "Serve Him with mirth, His praise foretell," I've heard the grand old anthem swell, all through my passing years; but those who sing it sing as though His service meant the deeps of woe, and misery and tears. Why make your creed a doleful thing? Why pull long faces when you sing, or grovel when you pray? Jehovah made this world so glad, he doesn't mean us to be sad throughout our little stay. I do not often seek the kirk, because if ever smile or smirk my toilworn features wore, a deacon'd drag me from my pew, and push me down the aisle and through the large cathedral door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE POET (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG BATTLE HYMN OF THE RUSSIAN REPUBLIC by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A BALLAD OF ATHLONE; OR, HOW THEY BROKE DOWN THE BRIDGE by AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE HE HAD HIS DREAM by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK AT MIDSUMMER by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON PHRYGES: JUSTICE PROTECTS THE KING by AESCHYLUS |