Classic Poem

Art is a cruel jade, of hopes and fears,
Of climbing fames, of laughter and of tears.
There came with her into the gray Globe's life
Consuming ache, corruption, woe and strife,
And all the fitful fever of desire
That tries her Chosen with a sleepless fire.
Life is not cut in sermons at her game —
Her own perfection is her only aim.
The most self-centred goddess known of Time,
She counts her happy dead in every clime.
Men barter peace and quiet for her wiles,
And welcome pain and shame to win her smiles,
And wander naked thro' unresting days
To share the brittle glory of her ways.
For whoso looks in her imperious eyes
Shall serve her, glad and sorrowing, till he dies.