I abhor girding a gown half-sewn,
Or hearkening to a history rough-hewn;
I never can munch half-cooked soufflé,
Or consign to dealings of mere outré.
A somnambulist is just a breathing corpse,
Some cooling clay that can hardly keep it's course;
It is his bane his walk of zig-and-zag,
An insensitive dog that can't its tail wag.
I would love to see that men be free from lack of verve and vigor,
Solemn with sense-- to those none can snigger;
To wear a mood and emotion right, and walk with strides steady,
To throw themselves to a task noble, and without fear create remedy.
I am of the ilk of those of faith and hope and light,
Of deeds thoroughgoing, who strive the harder to make alright;
The unyielding will of a man brave, with so grave a heart,
Those still don't quit when battle be toughest, though they be hurt.
I adore the farmer who tills the soil and sows the seeds,
And tends the shoots and trims their leaves, and removes only weeds;
And will never them cease to care until all is ripe and ready the wheat,
Then the man can rest to enjoy the harvest, and drink and eat.
The conscientious are damn mine darlings in deeds and design;
The mortals that move as just they ought, and ever dream divine;
The solemn and serious with sense, the strong and serene,
I love the go-getter who must glean the grain.
It's better to keep on steep a track and finish the race,
And be crowned the honor, and earn the grace and praise;
Than a promising start to pose, and then begin the bush to beat about,
And lose the lane that leads to light, and so fizzle out.