“The Pessimist’s Song”
O, this drab eternity we call life!
& everyday with drear pleasure ends,
Is quite as fatal as the surgeon’s knife,
O, this drab eternity.
As the surgeon unto his tissue mends,
Precious sleep does unto this endless strife,
Where & why in dreams are our souls sent?
If I die, dear surgeon, do not revive!
To labor on earth’s doomed, infertile sands,
Of our unskilled Maker’s jejune design,
O, this drab eternity.
“The Optimist’s Song”
On my pilgrim heart, do not prey nor pry,
For it is Love, the old, old Love of yore,
That wayward wanders, no dull anchor tied,
On my pilgrim heart.
& Love needs no warrant to knock down my door,
For Beauty alone, through crafty design,
Is its vein, its vessel, its Grecian urn.
Nor scope like vultures when True Love must die,
Like the Milky, to twinkle is its form,
& moody elegies I will inscribe,
On my pilgrim heart.
— Liam Miyar-Mullan ’22
