A PORTRAIT.
THERE he goes, as you say, like a madman—
His clothes all awry, And a fine lofty scorn for things human In forehead and eye.
Poor man, that scarce owns an acquaintance— If he had but a friend, Just to tell him straight out in one sentence How matters will end !
When body and mind have gone mouldy, "I'were something to say, "There, now, you would have it : I told ye : You would not obey !
"What fruit ever came from such dreaming But despondence and fear?"
—Hark, now : better hush this blaspheming, Lest an Angel should bear.
Poor man ?'—aye, indeed, for his Mortal Is quenched in Divine.
Meanly clad ?'—but maybe at Death's portal His raiment will shine.
Scornful-eyed ?'—why that eye pierces thorough Both your slanders and you. 'Sad ?'—yes, for he knows of the sorrow God gives unto few.
There he goes, as you say ; but no fool he—
With One for his friend : And I fancy He knows somewhat truly How 'matters will end.' J. It.
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