what's o'clock
193
THE WATERSHED
You say you are my friends,
Coming mistily to greet me in your streets and places,
Handing me roses which are not tinsel surely,
That much is no gainsaying, but there it ends.
For you, the friendly people, are a vision of massed faces,
A large wavering smile of something I shrink to call derision.
And yet I take your roses demurely
And express my obligation with a nice precision.
Why should I quarrel with what Fate sends?
Coming mistily to greet me in your streets and places,
Handing me roses which are not tinsel surely,
That much is no gainsaying, but there it ends.
For you, the friendly people, are a vision of massed faces,
A large wavering smile of something I shrink to call derision.
And yet I take your roses demurely
And express my obligation with a nice precision.
Why should I quarrel with what Fate sends?
Poppycock! For indeed I am not a fool.
Next year, perhaps, I shall be no more to you than a sick mountebank.
Therefore, while I thank you for your roses,
Next year, perhaps, I shall be no more to you than a sick mountebank.
Therefore, while I thank you for your roses,
