Tell me not in mormonful numbers
“Life is but an empty dream!”
To a student of the slumbers
Things are never what they seem.
Life is yearning and suppression;
Life is that to be enjoyed;
Puritanical discretion
Was not spoke by Dr. Freud.
Deep enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to dream, that each to-morrow
Finds us Freudier than to-day.
Sleep is long, and dreams are straying,
And our hearts, though they may falter,
Still, like sexiphones, are playing
Wedding marches to the altar.
In the universal battle,
In the seraglio of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle—
Beat your husband—or your wife.
Trust no dame, however pleasant!
Leave the dead ones on the shelf!
Act—act in the living present!
Nothing matters but Yourself.
Wives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives a serial,
And, departing, leave behind us
Biographical material.
Stories that perhaps another
Sailing o’er life’s Freudian sea—
A forlorn and dream-racked brother—
Reading, might say, “How like me!”
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any mate;
Now eluding, nor pursuing,
Learn to individuate.
