HAUNTED
by Don Marquis
A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?
Then why do you start and shiver so?
That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
But it sounds like another noise we know!
The heavy drops drummed red and slow,
The drops ran down as slow as fate—
Do ye hear them still?—it was long ago!—
But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!
Spirits there be that pass in peace;
Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;
And the hour that your choking breath shall cease
I will get my grip on your naked soul—
Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole—
I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:
To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?
And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?
Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day
When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?
Why did ye falter and look behind?
At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?
Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
Drink and forget, make merry and boast,
But the boast rings false and the jest is thin—
In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,
Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,
Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,
Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,
But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!
Showing posts with label Don Marquis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Don Marquis. Show all posts
OCTOBER
by Don Marquis
Cease to call him sad or sober,
Merriest of months, October!
Patron of the bursting bins,
Reveller in wayside inns,—
I can nowhere find a trace
Of the pensive in his face;
There is mingled wit and folly,
But the mad-cap lacks the grace
Of a thoughtful melancholy.
Spendthrift of the season's gold,
How he loves to fling about
Treasure filched from Summertime!—
Never ruffling squire of old
Better loved a tavern bout
When Prince Hal was in his prime.
Doublet slashed with gold and green;
Cloak of crimson, changeful sheen,
Opulently opaline,
Of the dews that gem his breast;
Frosty lace about his throat;
Scarlet plumes that flirt and float
Backward in a gay unrest—
Where 's another gallant drest
With such tricksy gayety,
Such unlessoned vanity?
With his amber afternoons
And his pendant poets' moons—
With his twilights dashed with rose
From the red-lipped afterglows—
With his vocal airs at dawn
Breathing hints of Helicon—
With the winding of the horn
Where his huntsmen meet the morn—
Bacchanalian bees that sip
Where his cider-presses drip—
With his every piping breeze
Shaking from familiar trees
Apples of Hespcrides—
With the chuckle, chirp, and trill
Of his jolly brooks that spill
Mirth in tangled madrigals
Down pebble-dappled waterfalls;
Brooks that laugh and make escape
Through wild arbors where the grape
Purples with a promise of
Racy vintage rare as love—
With his merry wanton air,
Mirth and vanity and folly,
Why should he be made to bear
Burden of some melancholy
Song that swoons and sinks with
care?
O cease to sing him sad or sober—
He 's a jolly dog, October!
by Don Marquis
Cease to call him sad or sober,
Merriest of months, October!
Patron of the bursting bins,
Reveller in wayside inns,—
I can nowhere find a trace
Of the pensive in his face;
There is mingled wit and folly,
But the mad-cap lacks the grace
Of a thoughtful melancholy.
Spendthrift of the season's gold,
How he loves to fling about
Treasure filched from Summertime!—
Never ruffling squire of old
Better loved a tavern bout
When Prince Hal was in his prime.
Doublet slashed with gold and green;
Cloak of crimson, changeful sheen,
Opulently opaline,
Of the dews that gem his breast;
Frosty lace about his throat;
Scarlet plumes that flirt and float
Backward in a gay unrest—
Where 's another gallant drest
With such tricksy gayety,
Such unlessoned vanity?
With his amber afternoons
And his pendant poets' moons—
With his twilights dashed with rose
From the red-lipped afterglows—
With his vocal airs at dawn
Breathing hints of Helicon—
With the winding of the horn
Where his huntsmen meet the morn—
Bacchanalian bees that sip
Where his cider-presses drip—
With his every piping breeze
Shaking from familiar trees
Apples of Hespcrides—
With the chuckle, chirp, and trill
Of his jolly brooks that spill
Mirth in tangled madrigals
Down pebble-dappled waterfalls;
Brooks that laugh and make escape
Through wild arbors where the grape
Purples with a promise of
Racy vintage rare as love—
With his merry wanton air,
Mirth and vanity and folly,
Why should he be made to bear
Burden of some melancholy
Song that swoons and sinks with
care?
O cease to sing him sad or sober—
He 's a jolly dog, October!
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