Beds of flowers, or vales of tears; Dewdrops on buds of roses—
Or miserly people, as dry as desert‐sands; The little, running joys of childhood,
Or the stampede of wild passions;
The ebb and ow of laughter,
Or the haunting melancholy of sorrow; The will‐o’‐the‐wisp of desire,
Which leads men only from mire to mire; The octopus‐grip of self‐complacency, Time‐beaten habits;
The first cry of the new‐born babe— And the last sigh of death;
The bursting joy of good health
Or the cruel ravages of disease—
These, all, are but shadows
Seen by us on the cosmic mental‐screen. Shadows—naught but shadows!
Yet shadows have, oh, so many shades! For there are dark shadows,
And there are light shadows—
And thus it is we see:
Even shadows may entertain!
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