THE PESSIMIST.

THE PESSIMIST.
559.2

With Jaundiced eye he looks around
And everything is wrong;
A minor strain by him is found
In every little song,
And every rose that blooms at morn
For him holds nothing but a thorn.

He sees no guerdon in the rain,
No blessing in the sun;
He views the weeds but not the grain
The summer days have won;
He hears the raven croak and cry.
But not the lark that courts the sky.

The wine of life he barely sips,
Remembering the lees;
He speaks of love with curling lips
And calls it but disease.
And every passion is of lust
Engendered from the wanton dust.

To him the world is mean and small,
The heavens but a span:
The universe is chaos all,
With neither plot nor plan:
The planets that emblazon night
To him are paltry points of light.

He notes the tempest where it blows
But not the zephyr breath,
And finds in everything that grows
A hidden germ of death;
To him each freeman is a slave
And every grass plot is a grave.
-Will Reed Dunroy.