Classic Poem

The laughter died upon our lips; the jest
Our breath into a feeble flame had fanned,
A fitful moment flickered and went out;
And sudden-swooping silence put to rout
The vanguard of light words, and hotly pressed
Our hearts' forlorn defences, though we planned
With subtle strategies to outwit fate.
Into the glowing coals, with chin on hand
And eyes that mirrored the gold flare, you gazed
Until the cinders blackened in the grate;
When, as the last flame guttered out, you raised
Your head and spoke in wondering distress —
" Yet — were we never meant for happiness? "

My soul pealed " Yea! " to your soul's weary cry,
Yet my lips moved not, and no word I spake
Out of my heart's deep bitterness. I know
Too well the alms the grudging gods bestow
On them who crave to have before they die
A little happiness for pity's sake:
The famished cry for bread; a blood-red stone
Is flung them: better far our hearts should break
Than fawn on gods whose utmost niggard dole
To them who cringe before the skull-built throne
Is pleasure's pinchbeck coin that cheats the soul,
And, all its glitter vanished in a breath,
But serves to pay the ferry-toll of death.