POEMS.
33
THE YELLOW AGE.
This is the age of grasping hearts and hands,
Of hurrying feet and greedy, watchful eyes
Turned to the worship of the Golden Calf,
Sneering down other idols with a laugh,
Throwing down other prizes for this prize;
Bowing before the priest who understands
Its myst'ries best in this and other lands.
Of hurrying feet and greedy, watchful eyes
Turned to the worship of the Golden Calf,
Sneering down other idols with a laugh,
Throwing down other prizes for this prize;
Bowing before the priest who understands
Its myst'ries best in this and other lands.
These are the glittering days of gilded show,
Of brazen tongues—of envy, jaundice-eyed
And covetous of all that gold controls:
This is the age of brains instead of souls—
The yellow age, where purses measure pride.
Even the flame of love, blown to and fro
By jealous winds, burns with a saffron glow.
Of brazen tongues—of envy, jaundice-eyed
And covetous of all that gold controls:
This is the age of brains instead of souls—
The yellow age, where purses measure pride.
Even the flame of love, blown to and fro
By jealous winds, burns with a saffron glow.
