The Marionettes

The Marionettes

    By Walter De La Mare

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Let the foul Scene proceed:

    There's laughter in the wings;

'Tis sawdust that they bleed,

    But a box Death brings.

How rare a skill is theirs

    These extreme pangs to show,

How real a frenzy wears

    Each feigner of woe!

Gigantic dins uprise!

    Even the gods must feel

A smarting of the eyes

    As these fumes upsweal.

Strange, such a Piece is free,

    While we Spectators sit,

Aghast at its agony,

    Yet absorbed in it!

Dark is the outer air,

    Cold the night draughts blow

Mutely we stare, and stare

    At the frenzied Show.

Yet heaven hath its quiet shroud

    Of deep, immutable blue -

We cry "An end!" We are bowed

    By the dread, "'Tis true!"

While the Shape who hoofs applause

    Behind our deafened ear,

Hoots - angel-wise - "the Cause!"

    And affright even fear.

https://www.public-domain-poetry.com/walter-de-la-mare/marionettes-33581

The Best Is Good Enough

    By James Whitcomb Riley

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    I quarrel not with Destiny,

    But make the best of everything -

    The best is good enough for me.

    Leave Discontent alone, and she

    Will shut her month and let you sing.

    I quarrel not with Destiny.

    I take some things, or let 'em be -

    Good gold has always got the ring;

    The best is good enough for me.

    Since Fate insists on secrecy,

    I have no arguments to bring -

    quarrel not with Destiny.

    The fellow that goes "haw" for "gee"

    Will find he hasn't got full swing.

    The best is good enough for me.

    One only knows our needs, and He

    Does all of the distributing.

    I quarrel not with Destiny;

    The best is good enough for me.

Woman's Love.

    By Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

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    A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,

         Full of eternal constancy and faith,

    And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs

         Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;

    So journeys she along life's crowded way,

         Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight;

    Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,

         Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:

    For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay

         Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart

         Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.

    Patiently lives she through each dreary day,

         Looking with little hope unto the morrow;

         And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.