345 and 346
More than the beauty of the ocean wide
are waters which a mountain glade will hide,
where tributaries to a stream will goss
about the hills, of whom they are the loss.
More than the vistas of the skies of day
are they of night, of which but few can say
what’s there, except the twinkling lights afar,
where neither cloud nor mountain summit are.
More than the perfect pictures found in art
are those, the pictures of a child’s heart,
where, not the measures of the eye are found,
but those in which simplicity abound.
I’ll take the painted sea sunset as meal,
but count the night-time, doodled glen as real.
~~~
There is a Feast, a multi-day affair,
the holiday my people love the most—
a lie, a cheat, or that kind of affair
will spark the cheers, the jeers, and toasts of hosts.
On the first day of SCANDAL, people mock.
The Foes deride, the “So?”s make their retort,
and on day two we’ve traded change for smock,
and lose our sense—all sense—of any sort.
By day three those in bonds are in bonds still,
and those with goblets keep them brim and high.
No Saturnalian opposites can spill
the graceful cup that could make hatred die.
And after that, the SCANDAL feast is done,
and we are left to wonder what it’s won.