SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE.
A CHORAL OF SUNSET.
I’ve a notion the clouds at sunset
Sing chorals in the sky
As they let down their billowy tresses
And kiss
The sun
“Good-bye!”
And the music comes in at the portals
That Heaven has left in the heart,
As the shine gets into the flower
Where the leaves
Have slipped
Apart.
THE POET’S PRAYER.
Sweet Zephyr from celestial isles
That all the earth with joy beguiles,
I would that thou wouldst blow to me,
And blow to me thy purest breathing song;
I would that thou wouldst come to me
And tell to me whate’er is right and wrong;
I would that thou wouldst lay thy hand
And rest thy hand upon my throbbing brow,
And that the words thou giv’st to me
And tak’st from me would be received as thou.
UPS AND DOWNS.
The world is like a coach and four,
And men as there you find ’em:
For some must ride and some must drive
And some hang on behind ’em.
Or like the farmer’s ’tater cart,—
The best on top to brag on:
For some must rise and some must fall
Like ’taters in the wagon.
THE OLD BENONI TREE.
Brother Grant, do you remember
Days and years we spent together
Thro’ the summer’s shiny weather
Nurtured where the warm suns shine in,
We were dreamers then, my brother,
As we lisped to one another,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
Guess you haven’t forgotten that yet,
Have you? I can shut my eyes and
See the old tree where we sat yet,—
Hear the rhythm of that thing rise and
Fall like echoes of the distant brine in
Some fair shell; and like it clinging
To the past, my heart keeps singing,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
I’ll be plagued if I can tell yet
What that hitching nonsense jingle
Meant, can you? I can smell yet,
Tho’, the blossoms;—hear the lingle
Of the bells of lolling kine in
Slaughter’s grove;—see the pink of
Fruit above us when I think of
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
I can taste those old Benoni
Apples yet—(fall apples—mellow
As the winds that kissed the bony
Branches into blossom; yellow—
Butter-yellow—and as fine in
Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were)—
For our burdensomest cares were,
Ah, my boy, you haven’t forgotten
How with wooden men we pounded
Them when green till almost rotten
Just to get the juice out? Sounded
Mighty tempting with that wine in
There just squushing for the skin to
Burst and let us both fall into
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming
Rascals we were then, my laddie!—
Knock off apples just half-dreaming
Ripeness, stain the stems that had a
Fresh look with some dirt—divine in
Innocence!—then run to mother,
Each one chuckling to the other,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
Tell her then we’d found them lying
On the ground (we had, too!) asking
If we might not have them, trying
Every childish art, nor masking
Mouths just watering to dine in
Glory on them. When we’d got our
“Yes!” all earth I’m certain, caught our
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
Oh the days and days together
In the lazy days of childhood
Through the shade and shiny weather
When we clad our men of pine in
Every phase of human action,
Sang to them the old “attraction,”
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een”!
Through my hazing, half-closed lashes
As I watch the steady blazing
Of my fangled oil-stove, plashes
Of that olden rhythm come lazing
From the lethy mists, and shine in
Irised splendors where the tilting
Timid Robin still is lilting,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
Oh the golden old Benonis
With a heart as rich and yellow
As the moon, no apple known is
Half so high or half so mellow,
For they’ve drunk the sun’s whole shine in
And preserved our boyhood’s story
With it’s olden, golden glory,
“Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”
A SLUMBER RHAPSODY.
Sleep, sleep, sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
The wind is in the west
And night is on the deep,—
Sleep and rest, rest and sleep,
Dream, dream, dream and sleep, dream and sleep,
The stars their vigils keep
And skies with glories gleam.
Dream and sleep, sleep and dream,
Dream, dream.
Sleep, rest, dream and rest, sleep and dream,
The morning sun will beam
And cares thy day infest,—
Rest and sleep, sleep and rest,
Rest, rest.
BAREFOOT AFTER THE COWS.
I am plodding down the little lane again
With my trousers rolled above my sunburnt knees;
And I whistle with the mocking-bird and wren
As they chatter in the hedging willow-trees.
And my foot as light and nimble as the airy wings they wear
Trips along the little lane again to-day;
And my bare feet catch the tinkle thro’ the silent summer air
Of the jingle-langle-ingle far away.—
Klangle-ling ke-langle,
Klingle-lang ke-lingle
Dingle-lingle-langle down the dell;
Jingle-langle lingle,
Langle-lingle r-r-angle,
From the lane across the prairie o’er the hill
Down a winding little path the cows have made,
In my thought to-night I’m going, going still,—
For the sinking Sun is lengthening its Shade!
And I find them in the hollows—the hollows of the dell
And I find the drowsy cattle in the dell,
By the ringle-rangle-jingle,—the jangle of the bell,
By the ringle and the jangle of the bell.—
Klang-ke-link ge-lingle,
Jangle-ling ke-langle,
Klink ke-langle-lingle down the dell;
Klangle-link ke-langle,
K-link ke-lank ke-lingle,
Lingle-link ke-langle of the bell.
As the cows across the prairie homeward wind
O’er the hill and toward the broadened sinking sun,
Steals a silence o’er the wooded vale behind
Where their shadows, lengthened, darken into one.
And I whistle back the echoes,—the echoes left behind,
That are wand’ring in the tangles of the dell;
And in answer to the message—the message that I wind,
Call the echoes of the klangle of the bell:—
Langle-langle lingle,
Lingle-langle lingle,
Lingle-lingle-langle down the dell;
D-r-r-ingle-langle-langle,
R-r-angle-ringle-langle,
Langle-lingle-r-r-angle of the bell.
At the lighting of the Candles of the Night
When my tangled locks have found the pillow’s rest,
I can hear the langle-lingle, soft and light,
And upon the ear of Fancy—of Fancy born of Sleep,
Comes the klangle from a distant dreamy Dell;
For the angels lull me dreaming—dreaming in their keep,
To the klingle-langle-lingle of the bell.—
Kling-ge-lang-ge-lingle,
Klangle-lingle-langle,
Langle-lingle-lingle from the dell;
Kling-ge-ling-ge-langle,
Ling-ge-lang-ge-lingle,
Lingle-lingle-langle of the bell.
GIFT AND GIVER.
Not what we give, but what we share.—Lowell.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.—Shakespeare.
Not the binding of this book
Nor its leaves with marble edge;
But the poet’s heart and soul
In each thought upon the page
Makes the book of worth,
Lifts us from the earth,
From the common sod
Nearer unto God.
Not the gold that’s in the gift
Nor the sense of doing duty;
But the giver in the gold
With a heart that’s full of beauty
Makes the gift of worth,
Lifts us from the earth,
From the common sod
Nearer unto God.
A SORTO’ PLAYED-OUT OL’ BOUQUET.
They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,
They’ve got a musty smell;
So I must shet the book up tight
An’ set an’ wait a spell.
They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,
They’ve lost their red an’ green,
An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up
With crinkled buds atween.
They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell
That almost makes me sick,
For they ’mind me o’ the days in June
We got ’m ’long the crick.
They wan’t no style about them tho’,
Like city flowers is—
They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose
That God set out fer His.
I stuck ’em in this Good Ol’ Book
Long ’fore they drooped an’ died,
An’ here each day they’ve smiled at me
When I have only cried.
I touch ’em—an’ I touch her hand
That put ’em here in mine!
I see ’em—an’ I see her lips
More temptin’er ’an wine.
’T’s a sorto’ played-out ol’ bouquet,
Ol’-fashion’ roses too;
But then it’s beautif’ler to me
Jist let me look agin—’y jing!
I see her smile there yet!
Somehow it sorto’ all comes back,
An’ I see her smile there yet.
They’re withered—sorto’ withered now,
They’ve got a musty smell;
So I must shet the book up tight
An’ set an’ wait a spell.
DOWN TO THE CANDY-MAN’S SHOP.
Here we go hippety-hop,
All for a stick of candy
Down to the candy-man’s shop—
Tell you what he’s a dandy.
All for a stick of candy
Hippety-hop we go.
Tell you what he’s a dandy
Givin’ us candy you know.
Hippety-hop we go,
Head-over-heels in our hurry.
Givin’ us candy you know
Sets us all in a flurry.
Head-over-heels in our hurry
Into the candy-man’s shop;
Sets us all in a flurry
Into the candy-man’s shop
Everybody just tumbles,
Goin’ it hippety-hop,
’Cause, you see, he never grumbles.
Everybody just tumbles
Makin’ the candy-man grin,
’Cause, you see, he never grumbles,
No matter how we come in.
Makin’ the candy-man grin,
Here we are crowdin’ and pushin’;
No matter how we come in
He knows the wush we’re a-wushin’.
Return.
L-l-lp! but that’s better’n ma’s jelly,
Down to the candy-man’s shop!
Hang to my hand now, Nellie,—
Here we go hippety-hop.
LIFE TO LOVE.
A Triolet.
It is life just to love
With a heart’s true devotion:
’Tis the great law Above.
It is life just to love,—
For the soul just to move
With a sweet, wild emotion.
It is life just to love
With a heart’s true devotion.
COME TO THE SHADOWS.
A Pantoum.
Come to the shadows of eve
Falling like mantles around us;
Come where the winds ever weave
Songs in the tree-webs around us.
Falling like mantles around us
Sweet chime the vespers of love;
Songs in the tree-webs around us
Waft from some Idean grove.
Sweet chime the vespers of love
Borne by the zephyrs of even;
Waft from some Idean grove
Lydian measures of heaven.
Borne by the zephyrs of even
Love in his quiver bears
Lydian measures of heaven,
Softest of musical airs.
Love in his quiver bears
Aye when the star-flowers blossom
Softest of musical airs,
Night folding Day to his bosom.
Aye when the star-flowers blossom
Love sings the sweetest of themes;
Night folding day to his bosom
Love sings the sweetest of themes
Bidding my heart that yet never
Lies down to rapturous dreams
Fold thine own close to mine ever.
Out ’mid the dew-loved flowers
Come where the winds ever weave
Love in the web of the hours,
Come to the shadows of eve.
SOUL OF MY SOUL.
Out on the river that rolleth forever,
Floweth forever and moaneth for aye,
Floateth a sorrow that never shall borrow
Peace to release it from me to the sea.
Sorrow that ever my sad heart’s quiver,
Sheathing alone this one arrow of woe,
Binds as the billow that never shall pillow
Crest on the breast of the moaning flow.
O Stygian water, of heart-breakings fraughter,
Far more aburdened of mournful commotion
Than night is of stillness or Hell is of fellness,
Knoll thou and toll my ocean devotion!
Dash thy dread roll ’gainst my turbulent soul,
Strike till its tones shall thy moanings control,
Bearing emotion as deep as the ocean
Unto the maiden whom angels of Aidenn,
Wandering over the strand of the blest,
Enviously stole from the heart of my soul,
Bore to thy shore and prest to thy breast.
Let not thy plashing and turbulent dashing
Grate on the ear of my radiant Love;
Kiss her bright tresses with fondest caresses
Controlling thy rolling with love from above.
Her fair form enfold on thy bosom cold,
Rowing her soft with thy Lethean oar;
Whisper, oh whisper, as winds of the wold
Unto the one whom they bore to thy shore.
Farewell, fair Minevr! soft over the river
Unto thy rest shall the waves gently roll,
Where never forever death-rivers dissever
Heart from fond heart, or thy soul from my soul.
MINCE PIE.
Tell me not in great big numbers
Facts can never lie;
For no fact in muddled slumbers
Lies so heavy as mince pie.
TEARS AND LAUGHTER.
Tears are often liveries stolen
From the equipage of grief;
Nor in Anger’s red eyes swollen
Tears are often pettish, Darling,
Like the foamy fretting run;
Like the foam they sparkle, Darling,
At the kisses of the sun.
Tears, true tears, are sad and lonely
Like the ocean’s music bars;
Like the music, vanish only
With the cycles of the stars.
Tears are often pent-up gladness,
Like the clouds that hold the bow;
Like the clouds they use their sadness
That their joys may better show.
Tears may often be imploring
Like the waves that kiss the skies;
Like the waves, for’er adoring,
They reflect their loved one’s eyes.
Tears? They are but kin to laughter,
Wedded as the night and day;
Like the day and night, each after
Each prepares the other’s way.
MIST-WING.
Oh my heart was light and airy
Like the mist-wing of the fairy
That I loved;
And I sang with song enchanting,
For the angel I was wanting
And I fain had clasped the maiden
In her mist-winged robes of Aidenn
With my love;
But my eyes were blind with gleamings,
And my hands, bound fast by dreamings,
Would not move.
Then my heart, with horror filling,
Mid-leap froze with awful chilling
Like to death;
For upon her mist-wings thrilling
Did a demon blow his chilling,
Blasting breath.
Where my Mist-Wing fair was ferried
There my hope and heart lie buried,
Turned to stone;
There the dreams of bygones cheery
Drone a dreary, ceaseless, weary
Monotone.
Where my fairy floats forever
O’er the ripples of the river,
Bound in sleep,
There my fondest fancies follow
And with haunting features hollow
Vigils keep.
From a star a light is streaming
In her golden tresses gleaming
Fair as Hope;
Fade the phantoms faster, faster,
From the Morning-star, life’s vaster
She is waking, waking, waking,
And my soul and body breaking
Swift apart.
Joy! my spirit soon shall hold her
And forever more enfold her,
Heart to heart.
THE COMMON LOT.
Choriambic.
Sweet bird, sitting so sad singing your song there on the limb alone,
Why make all the sad world sympathize with every mournful tone?
Ah yes! weep then, my dear, over the loss of the dear one you love:
All hearts weep with you, dear, weep for some heart lured to the land above.
Yet not even the deep river of tears rolls from the heart the stone;
No, naught save the white-robed Angel of Hope born of the soul alone.
O dove! mourning alone, croon to the moon over the one you love;
O soul! Hope is thine own, throned in the white dome of thy home above!
ECHO SONG.
Echo, be not heartless, I implore you,
Listen to my woe;
And I’ll evermore, as now, adore you
(Tho’ that augurs that I sometimes bore you)
For I fain would know
What’s to be done.
—“Be done!”
Oh but, sir, I must beseech, entreat you
That you hear me through.—
If a rare and radiant maid should meet you
And with smiles and wiles and pranks should greet you,
Pray, what’s one to do
When one sees her?
“Seize her!”
But I’m not quite well enough acquainted
With her, don’t you see?
Echo, when her lily face is painted
(On my soul), and at my heart she’s feinted,
And I’m blind as she,
How can I seize her?
“See, sir.”
But alas! the laws of Love prohibit
That his subjects see;
And besides, explicitly inhibit
Other sight than blindness to exhibit.
What then? I can ne
“See,” nor “seize her.”
But, friend Echo (for you are most truly
Friend and counselor),
Love’s commands must all be followed duly
(Tho’ himself most blind and most unruly);
Hence I can’t “see,” sir,
“Cease,” nor “seize her.”
“Cæsar!”
Yes, that’s what I’ve been ejaculating,
But it’s idle breath.
Now, if this consuming passionating
Doesn’t stop its wild peregrinating
It’ll be my death.
Must I let it?
“Let it!”
Friend should answer friend more seriously
Nor play upon grave words.
She’s affected quite as amorously
As who wakens you thus clamorously
With love’s scattered sherds,
Seeking surcease—
“Sir, cease!”
Nay, I will not cease till satisfaction
Is obtained from you.
Tell me what to do in this distraction
And I’ll vary from it not a fraction.—
Truth is, there are two—
Ann and Mary.
Tell me, Echo, O sweet Echo, tell me,
Oh and truly tell
What sweet thralling charm should most impel me
That no other wight may quite excel me
When I choose my belle
For matrimony—
“Money.”
Tell me then without equivocation
If you value health,
Swear it by the hills, your habitation,
Whence you issue like an exhalation,—
Which one has the wealth?
Truly answer—
“Ann, sir.”
Thanks to thee, sweet Echo, Love’s pathfinder!
We shall never part.
Forthwith I will hie me forth and find her
And the wealthiest jingling love-songs wind her
Till I win her heart
And earn her mine.—
“Ann!—dern her mine!”
[This last he hears in after years.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
Hope and Love have gone away
Closing every window-blind,
Locking every door behind,
Tenantless the musty house
Throws on passers-by its gloom;
Nor in any haunted room
Dares a living mouse.
Old and mouldy there it stands
All mysterious and lone
With its mosses overgrown—
Ruin’s myriad hands.
Useless grow the choking weeds
While the winding eglantine
And the morning-glory vine
Scatter wild their seeds.
Times there are when winds, hard pressed,
Gibber at the ghosts within,
Hollow-voiced with staring grin,
Uninvited guests.
Rumor, waking night and day,
Sees strange sights through window-panes,
Hears weird sounds of clanking chains
Sounding far away.
Rumor tells that Hope and Love
Walk the ghosts of murdered selves
When the midnight hour twelves:
Empty rooms they rove.
But malicious town-folk say
Hope and Love are not away
But art hiding day by day:
But alas! I would ’twere so!—
Would that Hope and Love each might,
Might return e’en tho’ at night,
Tho’ at morn they go!
For Despair and Hate hide there,
Quiet thro’ the daytime quite,
Ghosting sights and sounds by night,
Demons of the air.
Counterfeiters both are they,
Coining only after night,
Minting metal ghostly white,
Holding revelry.
Aye, ’tis haunted! Hate is wed,
Wedded to his mate Despair,
And they hold high revels there:
Hope and Love are dead!
Good my friends, remove the pile,
Ere it fall to foul decay;
Hope and Love have gone away,
Ruin feeds the while.
Hope and Love have gone away,
Closing door and closing blind,
Leaving Ruin lone behind,
Bearing off the key.
SONNETS OF LIFE.
I.
A brilliant battle Darkness fought with Light,
A brilliant battle all the living day;
The Sun, awearied in the deadly fray,
Sank vanquished ’neath his armored foeman’s might,
But flung his arms far up the black’ning height,
From the quiver of the planets joyously
Drew forth his arrows, star-tipped, feathery,
And pierced the iron-plated breast of Night
With ten thousand starry-spangled blades of fire.
Night, wounded by the arrows of the Sun,
Poured out ten thousand streams of living blood
That dripped from every fire-tipped arrow dire
Down in the sorrowing sea; and the wounds each one
And the arrows all lay skyed in the doming flood.
II.
Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height
Along the ground of heaven; all bleeding lay
Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day,
Exulting with a demon’s own delight.
Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might,
Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray,
From the shining quiver of Divinity
Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God’s own light,
And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red,
With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold.
Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread
Sank vanquished Night with all the damned dead!
And ever over Darkness, ages old,
Triumphant ruleth Light,—the great Godhead!
SYMBOLS IN SONNETS OF LIFE.
On submitting this poem to critics, I find that various ideas are gleaned. Some take it as a literal description of night and day, or light and darkness! Others think that it celebrates the victory of truth over error, right over wrong, virtue over vice, or possibly the triumph of learning over ignorance, or civilization over barbarism. This is not so surprising; for I confess it does, indeed, admit various interpretations. Some say that in its obscurity, though in nothing else, it somewhat resembles the work of some great poet. The only consolation that I can squeeze out of all these various opinions is that obscurity and occultness synchronously attend upon and are concomitant with both iconographic delineations and symbolical phraseology. ’Tis said ’tis so,—and so ’tis sad!
“Sing a song o’ six-pence, pocket full of rye, four and twenty black-birds baked in a pie,” etc., is comparatively meaningless, tho’ pleasing, unless we know what is symbolized. The “pie” is the day, the “four and twenty black-birds” are the twenty-four hours of the day, etc., etc. The symbols thus completed give a new beauty to that old jingle. In fact, it was that identical jingle with its symbols that suggested Sonnets of Life.
As the title and staring Carlylean capitals throughout suggest, I intended this poem to be a sort of Analogue of Life. In consequence of all the foregoing, and for the delectation of those who care to read the piece a second time, I have subjoined these
Symbols and Notes.
I.
- Darkness,—death.
- Light,—life (on earth).
- day,—one’s duration of life.
- Sun,—one’s life.
- black’ning height,—hour of death.
- quiver of the planets,—thoughts, desires, longings, hopes.
- arrows,—faith in the future.
- iron-plated breast of Night,—gloom of one’s death.
- streams of living blood,—hope others receive from the Christian’s death.
- dire,—i. e., dire only to Darkness.
- sorrowing sea,—sorrowing friends.
- skyed in the doming flood,—acts, deeds, words, hopes, etc., of the dead, reflected in humanity and especially in the hearts of friends.
II.
- Reviving Sun,—soul, on morning of resurrection.
- eastern gray,—dawning of the morning of the resurrection day.
- mail of Night,—sleep of death.
- Last sonnet closes all life on earth, triumphs over death, and brings the resurrection day.
- Last two lines begin and indefinitely extend the Life Eternal.
This may aid somewhat. Too close an interpretation cannot be permitted in any poem: ’twould make some of the most exquisite poetic thought of literature ridiculous and nonsensical. The true poetic nature never needs more in the interpretation of any poem than the title and the naked poem itself to suggest thoughts and images infinitely more beautiful than explanation can possibly make them.
A MODERN TRAGEDY AVERTED.
He (in despondency).
Heartless! heartless! Oh,
I know!
Tho’ your heart forget me
And my own be turned to stone;
Tho’ no day may let me
Claim my loved one as my own,
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
She (faithfully).
Heartless?—heartless!—So?
Ah no!
Tho’ long years divide us
With the burdened stream of care;
Tho’ the waves deride us
With a still unanswered prayer,
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
He (joyously).
Then not heartless?! No!
No, no!
If I’ve wronged you, Dearest,
’Tis because I’m mad for love;
’Tis that you are nearest
When my thoughts in madness move.
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
She (flippantly).
Then not heartless? No!
Not so!
Tho’ you gave the treasure
Of your very life to me,
I thus at my pleasure
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
He (bitterly and sadly).
Heartless! heartless! Oh
’Tis so!
All the world is dreary:
Stars and love have ceased to shine;
Oh the weary, weary
Night that endlessly is mine!—
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
She (tauntingly).
Ha! I’m heartless, tho’?
No, no!
I was only funning
And I didn’t mean it once;—
Never thought of running
Into love, you great big dunce.—
’Course, my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true!
He (in despair).
Heartless! heartless! Flow,
Oh this life is bitter!—
Poison, river, rope, or gun—
Any death is fitter
Than two hearts thus dead in one.—
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
She (in fear, imploringly).
No! not heartless! No!
No, no!
I am true as ever;—
Oh don’t take your precious life
And I’ll be forever
Your own darling little wife.—
Still my heart is true
To you,
Still is true,
Still is true.
THE HUMAN HEART.
Birth.
Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter:
The heart has forgotten its tears;
For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter—
Joy on Account of Birth.
With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and burning,
Sipping the heart’s night dew;
Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are returning—
God is letting them through.
Sorrow on Account of Death.
With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging
Deep in the heart’s confines:
A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging—
God is working the mines!
Soul Passes Beyond.
In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are clinking
A wealth of music untold:
For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sinking—
God has coined His gold!
L’Envoy.
Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow,—
The heart holds the songs of the spheres;
For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow—
God is speeding the years.
THE NIGHTMARE.
In the depths of my ink bottle,
With a fiery gleaming throttle
Stood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day;
And the murky ink was lighted
With a fiendish fire that blighted
Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay.
And my pen, from Love’s own quiver,
Wrought of gold, began to shiver
With a fearful quaking terror born of death
As I touched the hellish-lighted
Surface of the Ink that frighted
Pluto’s self and stole Persephone’s sweet breath.
Hour after fearful hour
Stood that blasting, fiendish power
In whose grasp my golden pen was ground to dust.
Oh, the wasting, endless season
Chilling heart and killing reason
As the gloating demon glutted full his lust!
“Golden Pen that Love had given,
Wrought of gold from my heart riven,
Thus my palsied, broken heart must bury thee
In the fiendish ink, made blacker
By the demon’s fiery lacquer
Then a shadow came before me
And a loathing sickness o’er me
As the demon sank below and out of sight;
For I saw a stream of gold
That the demon could not hold
To the bottom of the darkness drip its light.
Then I knew that never, never
Would Love’s gold-illumined quiver
Bind again the shaft the demon could not hold;
For I saw a radiance shining
’Round the place, and angels twining
Strange and all-eternal Beauty of the gold!
Darkness reigned then, deep, unlighted,
Silence sitting near, half-frighted
By the demon’s disappointed distant wail
And far-off mingled angel voices
Tuned to music that rejoices
In the glory of a love that cannot fail.
Morning?—Thank God that all our seeing
And our seeming is not being!
Dear wife, let your warm cheek still against mine lie
While your loving arms and kisses
Doubly tell what loving bliss is.—
Warning:—Before you go to bed, don’t eat mince pie!