The Old Chimaeras. Old Recipts

 THE old Chimaeras, old receipts
For making "happy land,"
The old political beliefs
Swam close before my hand.
The grand old communistic myths In a middle state of grace, Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell, And walking for a space, Quite dead, and looking it, and yet All eagerness to show The Social-Contract forgeries By Chatterton - Rousseau - A hundred such as these I tried, And hundreds after that, I fitted Social Theories As one would fit a hat! Full many a marsh-fire lured me on, I reached at many a star, I reached and grasped them and behold - The stump of a cigar! All through the sultry sweltering day The sweat ran down my brow, The still plains heard my distant strokes That have been silenced now.
This way and that, now up, now down, I hailed full many a blow.
Alas! beneath my weary arm The thicket seemed to grow.
I take the lesson, wipe my brow And throw my axe aside, And, sorely wearied, I go home In the tranquil eventide.
And soon the rising moon, that lights The eve of my defeat, Shall see me sitting as of yore By my old master's feet.

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