AGONY:

WE poets are not as other men,

But cast in a different mould, -

By sparkling beck o'er weary wold

Till it hide it in furzy fen,

We stray, and straying muse, what time

Birds make music and poets make rhyme.

In sunny shallow grow mild marsh-mallow

And crispy cress and fiery flag;

The slight stream rests at foot o' the crag

Like panting dame after valse or galop,

While courteous breezes vainly seek

To fan the bloom from her shell-hued cheek.

I am a poet! I tell you true,-

The very saying doth make me so;

Maketh me poet (as poets go),

For black is white and pink is blue!

Tell me is virtue not vice, in sooth?

And falsehood what but incongruous truth?

Glittering threads of thought I weave,

Warp and woof, into cloth of gold.

And eke revamp the legends of old,-

Poetical hash of old and new.

Hash! inscrutable mystery!

Vanished the maiden, - woe is me!

I wander adown the meadows brown;

The clear Charles plasheth and whispereth low,-

Whispereth low in its somnolent flow,

Beareth me tales from field, from town.

Over the river sunbeams quiver;

Where is happiness? - Gone forever.

A winsome wench, to the wave as it wimples,

Cometh, hummeth an old-time air;

A wealth of copper-golden hair,

Nose that is straight, and cheeks with dimples,

Eyes coal-black, (might Love inspire!)

Would kindle like coals, for Love is fire.

If Love be fire, as poet saith,

Why maketh love matches when matches make fire?

Ho! philosopher, vent your ire!

Undistributed middle, i' faith!

"This is not logic!" he'll say so grim.

"Who says it is?" I answer him.

Seven times seven are forty-nine!

Prithee, sweet maid, come be my love!

By flames below, by fires above,

As I am thine, thou shalt be mine!

Ne'er a wee word from goddess-like she!

Heart petrescent! - woe is me!

Ho! fill the beaker, fill it up!

Rubies with sparkling diamonds crowned;

Care and kittens must both be drowned,

One in a pool and one in a cup.

List! in the hedgerows throstles make moan;

Sweet is their singing, but sweeter mine own.

Cursed be all! The lily-white cat

Hath crooned her prophecy oft in vain.-

Cold drops patter on window-pane.

Abracadabra! What of that?

Coal will burn in an air-tight stove!

Pass the beaker! - O Love, my Love!

C.A.M.