A Valentine's Song
MOTLEY
I
count
the
only
wear
That
suits,
in
this
mixed
world,
the
truly
wise,
Who
boldly
smile
upon
despair
And
shake
their
bells
in
Grandam
Grundy's
eyes.
Singers
should
sing
with
such
a
goodly
cheer
That
the
bare
listening
should
make
strong
like
wine,
At
this
unruly
time
of
year,
The
Feast
of
Valentine.
We
do
not
now
parade
our
"oughts"
And
"shoulds"
and
motives
and
beliefs
in
God.
Their
life
lies
all
indoors;
sad
thoughts
Must
keep
the
house,
while
gay
thoughts
go
abroad,
Within
we
hold
the
wake
for
hopes
deceased;
But
in
the
public
streets,
in
wind
or
sun,
Keep
open,
at
the
annual
feast,
The
puppet-booth
of
fun.
Our
powers,
perhaps,
are
small
to
please,
But
even
negro-songs
and
castanettes,
Old
jokes
and
hackneyed
repartees
Are
more
than
the
parade
of
vain
regrets.
Let
Jacques
stand
Wert(h)ering
by
the
wounded
deer
-
We
shall
make
merry,
honest
friends
of
mine,
At
this
unruly
time
of
year,
The
Feast
of
Valentine.
I
know
how,
day
by
weary
day,
Hope
fades,
love
fades,
a
thousand
pleasures
fade.
I
have
not
trudged
in
vain
that
way
On
which
life's
daylight
darkens,
shade
by
shade.
And
still,
with
hopes
decreasing,
griefs
increased,
Still,
with
what
wit
I
have
shall
I,
for
one,
Keep
open,
at
the
annual
feast,
The
puppet-booth
of
fun.
I
care
not
if
the
wit
be
poor,
The
old
worn
motley
stained
with
rain
and
tears,
If
but
the
courage
still
endure
That
filled
and
strengthened
hope
in
earlier
years;
If
still,
with
friends
averted,
fate
severe,
A
glad,
untainted
cheerfulness
be
mine
To
greet
the
unruly
time
of
year,
The
Feast
of
Valentine.
Priest,
I
am
none
of
thine,
and
see
In
the
perspective
of
still
hopeful
youth
That
Truth
shall
triumph
over
thee
-
Truth
to
one's
self
-
I
know
no
other
truth.
I
see
strange
days
for
thee
and
thine,
O
priest,
And
how
your
doctrines,
fallen
one
by
one,
Shall
furnish
at
the
annual
feast
The
puppet-booth
of
fun.
Stand
on
your
putrid
ruins
-
stand,
White
neck-clothed
bigot,
fixedly
the
same,
Cruel
with
all
things
but
the
hand,
Inquisitor
in
all
things
but
the
name.
Back,
minister
of
Christ
and
source
of
fear
-
We
cherish
freedom
-
back
with
thee
and
thine
From
this
unruly
time
of
year,
The
Feast
of
Valentine.
Blood
thou
mayest
spare;
but
what
of
tears?
But
what
of
riven
households,
broken
faith
-
Bywords
that
cling
through
all
men's
years
And
drag
them
surely
down
to
shame
and
death?
Stand
back,
O
cruel
man,
O
foe
of
youth,
And
let
such
men
as
hearken
not
thy
voice
Press
freely
up
the
road
to
truth,
The
King's
highway
of
choice.
