| |
| WHEN I am tired of earnest men, | |
| Intense and keen and sharp and clever, | |
| Pursuing fame with brush or pen | |
| Or counting metal disks forever, | |
| Then from the halls of shadowland | 5 |
| Beyond the trackless purple sea | |
| Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand | |
| Beside my desk and talk to me. | |
| |
| Still on his delicate pale face | |
| A quizzical thin smile is showing, | 10 |
| His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, | |
| His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. | |
| He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, | |
| A suit to match his soft gray hair, | |
| A rakish stick, a knowing hat, | 15 |
| A manner blithe and debonair. | |
| |
| How good, that he who always knew | |
| That being lovely was a duty, | |
| Should have gold halls to wander through | |
| And should himself inhabit beauty. | 20 |
| How like his old unselfish way | |
| To leave those halls of splendid mirth | |
| And comfort those condemned to stay | |
| Upon the bleak and sombre earth. | |
| |
| Some people ask: What cruel chance | 25 |
| Made Martin’s life so sad a story? | |
| Martin? Why, he exhaled romance | |
| And wore an overcoat of glory. | |
| A fleck of sunlight in the street, | |
| A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,— | 30 |
| Such visions made each moment sweet | |
| For this receptive, ancient child. | |
| |
| Because it was old Martin’s lot | |
| To be, not make, a decoration, | |
| Shall we then scorn him, having not | 35 |
| His genius of appreciation? | |
| Rich joy and love he got and gave; | |
| His heart was merry as his dress. | |
| Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave | |
| Who did not gain, but was, success. | 40 |
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