for-the-love-of-wolves

THOUGH our eyes turn ever waveward
Where our sun is well-nigh set ;
Though our Century totters graveward
We may laugh a little yet.
Oh ! our age-end style perplexes
All our elders time has tamed ;
On our sleeves we wear our sexes,
Our diseases, unashamed.
Have we lost the mood romantic
That was once our right by birth ?
Lo ! the greenest girl is frantic
With the woe of all the earth.
But we know a British rumour,
And we think it whispers well :
“ We would ventilate our humour
In the very jaws of Hell.”
Though our thoughts turn ever Doomwards,
Though our sun is well-nigh set,
Though our Century totters tombwards,
We may laugh a little yet.

John Davidson