So much of life is merely a farce!

It’s sometimes as well as to standby

And look at it and smile, better,

Perhaps, than to take part in it.

Like a dreamer suddenly awakened,

We usually see life, not with

The romantic colouring

Of last night’s dream but with

A saner viewing. We are more ready

To give up the dubious, glamorous

And mostly unattainable but

At the same time to hold on

To the few things that we know

Will give us some happy moments.

We always go back to nature

As an eternal source of beauty

And of the true and deep and

Long-lasting good fortune.

But once deprived of any progress

And of internal power, we yet

Throw open our windows

And listen to the chirr of cicadas

Or to falling autumn leaves

And inhale the fragrance

Of the yellowish chrysanthemums,

And over the top there shines

The autumn moon’s pendent brow—

We are content for a poised while.

For we are now in the late summer

Of our farcical life. There comes

A rare time in our routine when,

As individuals, we are pervaded

To the brim by the spirituals

Of early autumn tune, in which

The greenish tints are mixed

With gold but sadness with joy,

And all hopes are mixed with

Reminiscences of the olden days,

Stirring up eerie affection for them.