DECEMBER 149 



dom that the old should learn to live alone without 

 depression, and, above all, without that far more deadly 

 thing ennui. I have no doubt that training for old 

 age, to avoid being a bore and a burden to others, is 

 as desirable as any other form of education. The 

 changes brought about by circumstances mean, in a 

 sort of way, a new birth, and one has to discover for 

 oneself the best methods of readjusting the details of 

 one's life. I find this poem written in one of my 

 notebooks many years ago by a man whom I had 

 known from childhood. Though he was not the 

 author, the poem represented his feelings rather than 

 mine. It has truth in it, but it has also a touch of 

 bitterness, which appealed, no doubt, to a man who 

 had reaped nothing but life's failure. He had always 

 lived up in balloons of his own imaginings, believing 

 in ultimate wealth, and having the power to draw 

 forth money from others, merely to lose it. He died 

 in old age and poverty, in a garret at Venice. Do we 

 reap as we sow? Very often; not always. I am sure 

 that, up to now, I have never got back in mushrooms 

 what I have spent in spawn. Of course the fault is 

 mine ; I know that. 



Laugh, and the world laughs with you; 



Weep, and you weep alone, 

 For this brave old earth must borrow its mirth 



It has sorrows enough of its own. 

 Sing, and the hills will answer; 



Sigh, it is lost in air, 

 For the echoes bound to a joyous sound 



They shrink from the voice of care. 



Rejoice, and men will seek you; 



Grieve, and they all will go, 

 For they want full measure of all your pleasure 

 They do not heed your woe. 



