Life would be ravished of its zest,
And shorn of its ambition,
And sinks into the dreamless rest
Of inanition.

Up the broad stairs that Value rears
Stand motives beckoning earthward,
To summon men to nobler spheres,
And lead them worthward.

_Ruth_.

I'm afraid to show you anything more;
For parsnips and art are so very long,
That the passage back to the cellar-door
Would be through a mile of song.
But Truth owns me for an honest teller;
And, if the honest truth be told,
I am indebted to you and the cellar
For a lesson and a cold.
And one or the other cheats my sight;
(O silly girl! for shame!)
Barrels are hooped with rings of light,
And stopped with tongues of flame.
Apples have conquered original sin,
Manna is pickled in brine,
Philosophy fills the potato bin,
And cider will soon be wine.
So crown the basket with mellow fruit,
And brim the pitcher with pearls;