Hating the secret noisomeness
That saps with its creeping ills.
Hating the wild oats that they sowed
In the lustful pace that kills.
That saps with its creeping ills.
Hating the wild oats that they sowed
In the lustful pace that kills.
These are the boys who "would be boys,"
Not held to straight laced moral code,
The boys who measured their golden youth
By laws that license had bestowed.
They tread the trail where the serpent crawled
And are slimed with its vicious stain,
They plow their oats with the plow of sin
And reap with the sickle of pain.
Not held to straight laced moral code,
The boys who measured their golden youth
By laws that license had bestowed.
They tread the trail where the serpent crawled
And are slimed with its vicious stain,
They plow their oats with the plow of sin
And reap with the sickle of pain.
L'Envoi—
And the gleaners who come in the after years—
Generations born under that spell?
In taint of body and smirch of soul
They garner an endless hell!
And the gleaners who come in the after years—
Generations born under that spell?
In taint of body and smirch of soul
They garner an endless hell!
HEREDITY
I WILL live my life as it has been planned,
No good comes ever of idle fret;
I will look each day in the face, clear-eyed,
With silent lips and a cheek unwet.
No good comes ever of idle fret;
I will look each day in the face, clear-eyed,
With silent lips and a cheek unwet.
I will eat of the Dead Sea fruit of grief
And give no sign of its bitter tang;
I will tread, blind-fold, the hot plough-shares,
Hearing the song that the martyrs sang.
And give no sign of its bitter tang;
I will tread, blind-fold, the hot plough-shares,
Hearing the song that the martyrs sang.
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