THE old Chimaeras, old receipts br For making "happy land," br The old political beliefs br Swam close before my hand. br br The grand old communistic myths br In a middle state of grace, br Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell, br And walking for a space, br br Quite dead, and looking it, and yet br All eagerness to show br The Social-Contract forgeries br By Chatterton - Rousseau - br br A hundred such as these I tried, br And hundreds after that, br I fitted Social Theories br As one would fit a hat! br br Full many a marsh-fire lured me on, br I reached at many a star, br I reached and grasped them and behold - br The stump of a cigar! br br All through the sultry sweltering day br The sweat ran down my brow, br The still plains heard my distant strokes br That have been silenced now. br br This way and that, now up, now down, br I hailed full many a blow. br Alas! beneath my weary arm br The thicket seemed to grow. br br I take the lesson, wipe my brow br And throw my axe aside, br And, sorely wearied, I go home br In the tranquil eventide. br br And soon the rising moon, that lights br The eve of my defeat, br Shall see me sitting as of yore br By my old master's feet.