Part 21

A MAN OF MANY PARTS

It was a man of many parts, Who in his coffer mind Had stored the Classics and the Arts And Sciences combined; The purest gems of poesy Came flashing from his pen-- The wholesome truths of History He gave his fellow men.

He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars; And he could tell you, too, Their distances--as though the cars Had often checked him through-- And time 'twould take to reach the sun, Or by the "Milky Way," Drop in upon the moon, or run The homeward trip, or stay.

With Logic at his fingers' ends, Theology in mind, He often entertained his friends Until they died resigned; And with inquiring mind intent Upon Alchemic arts A dynamite experiment-- . . . . . . . A man of many parts!

THE FROG

Who am I but the Frog--the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to-- And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King--a King!-- For the royal robes I wear-- A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night--the Night!-- Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows--and blows,-- While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky--the sky-- As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass-- And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail--all hail!-- To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim!

DEAD SELVES

How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead?

A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled-- How many of my selves are dead?

The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden--where are they? In vain I listen for their tread-- How many of my selves are dead?

The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head-- How many of my selves are dead?

The earnest features of a youth With manly fringe on lip and chin, With eager tongue to tell the truth, To offer love and life, forsooth, So brave was he to woo and win; A prouder man was never wed-- How many of my selves are dead?

The great, strong hands so all-inclined To welcome toil, or smooth the care From mother-brows, or quick to find A leisure-scrap of any kind, To toss the baby in the air, Or clap at babbling things it said-- How many of my selves are dead?

The pact of brawn and scheming brain-- Conspiring in the plots of wealth, Still delving, till the lengthened chain, Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, Recoils with dregs of ruined health And pain and poverty instead-- How many of my selves are dead?

The faltering step, the faded hair-- Head, heart and soul, all echoing With maundering fancies that declare That life and love were never there, Nor ever joy in anything, Nor wounded heart that ever bled-- How many of my selves are dead?

So many of my selves are dead, That, bending here above the brink Of my last grave, with dizzy head, I find my spirit comforted, For all the idle things I think: It can but be a peaceful bed, Since all my other selves are dead.

A DREAM OF LONG AGO

Lying listless in the mosses Underneath a tree that tosses Flakes of sunshine, and embosses Its green shadow with the snow-- Drowsy-eyed, I sink in slumber Born of fancies without number-- Tangled fancies that encumber Me with dreams of long ago.

Ripples of the river singing; And the water-lilies swinging Bells of Parian, and ringing Peals of perfume faint and fine, While old forms and fairy faces Leap from out their hiding-places In the past, with glad embraces Fraught with kisses sweet as wine.

Willows dip their slender fingers O'er the little fisher's stringers, While he baits his hook and lingers Till the shadows gather dim; And afar off comes a calling Like the sounds of water falling, With the lazy echoes drawling Messages of haste to him.

Little naked feet that tinkle Through the stubble-fields, and twinkle Down the winding road, and sprinkle Little mists of dusty rain, While in pasture-lands the cattle Cease their grazing with a rattle Of the bells whose clappers tattle To their masters down the lane.

Trees that hold their tempting treasures O'er the orchard's hedge embrasures, Furnish their forbidden pleasures As in Eden lands of old; And the coming of the master Indicates a like disaster To the frightened heart that faster Beats pulsations manifold.

Puckered lips whose pipings tingle In staccato notes that mingle Musically with the jingle- Haunted winds that lightly fan Mellow twilights, crimson-tinted By the sun, and picture-printed Like a book that sweetly hinted Of the Nights Arabian.