Laughter

Behold the cup. 'Tis a bitter quaff.
Behold the grey monk-robe of the day.
Behold men who let their eyes see naught
But a script as dry as the mold
Of an ancient king. Behold fools, out
Upon the greensward-chasing butterflies,
Or following gnats, each bent with intent,
Upon his folly-quest.
Behold the bitter quaff, the rusted cup
Of day. Let me fling the wine of my soul
In a spraying fluid into its rust-bit bottom;
Little dancing shadows, flitting light.
Oh, let me make of my soul a jester,
Who knoweth not the shadows-save as his
Folly-rod. Let him then take up the staff
Of day, and place upon its tip-bells,
And dip it within the fluid of my soul!
For there is nothing in the wine
Which may bring dreams, nor fan the flame
Of happiness-like Laughter!
Put within the hand of a fool the scepter,
And within the hand of a king the jester's rod.
This is an equal division of that inheritance
Which God hath delivered jealously-MIRTH.