Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross! 
Who wrought the shining miracle? 
What magic cast the dazzling spell?—­
The star is here to see the boss!

THE JESTER

All the fool’s gold of the world,
All your dusty pageantries,
All your reeking praise of Self,
All your wise men’s sophistries,
All that springs of golden birth,
Is not half the jester’s worth!

Who’s the jester?  He is one,
Who behind the scenes hath been,
Caught Life with his make-up off,
Found him but a harlequin
Cast to play a tragic part—­
And the two laughed, heart to heart!

IN A CAFE

Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth,
Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester’s mask on Truth;
And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die,
But a ghost in her laughter murmured, “I lie—­I lie!”

She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love,
And I said:  “Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?”
And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die,
But a ghost in her laughter murmured, “I lie—­I lie!”

TO A CABARET SINGER

Painted little singer of a painted song,
Painted little butterfly of a painted day,
The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses,
The cold of your caresses,
I’ll tell you what they say—­
“The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
The music’s in my throat, but my soul no song confesses,
The laughter’s on my tongue, but my heart is clay.”

Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream,
Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray,
’Tis not your hair’s dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses)
’Tis not your sham sad poses
That tell your hollow day—­
The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away,
The music’s in my throat, but my soul no song discloses,
The laughter’s on my tongue, but my heart is clay.

IN THE THEATRE

Weep not, fair lady, for the false,
The fickle love’s rememberance,
What though another claim the waltz—­
The curtain soon will close the dance.

Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet,
Wild moment of thy vanished bliss;
The longest scene as Time is fleet—­
The curtain soon will close the kiss.

And thou, too vain, too flattered mime,
Drink deep the pleasures of thy day,
No ruin is too mean for Time—­
The curtain soon will close the play.

WALTER J. KINGSLEY

LO, THE PRESS AGENT