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But whether there shall gleam a light
Across the waters stormy,
You wait, who went before me;
By winds of blackness blown,
From The Midland.
He's a little dog, with a stubby tail, and a moth-eaten coat of tan,
And his legs are short, of the wabbly sort: I doubt if they ever ran; And he howls at night, while in broad daylight he sleeps like a bloomin' log, And he likes the food of the gutter breed; he's à most irregular dog.
I call him Bum, and in total sum he's all that his name implies,
It is truly beyond my ken.
I talk to him when I'm lonesome-like, and I'm sure that he understands
W. DAYTON WEDGEFARTH.
Where neither flowers nor shadows are,
There stands an image secular.
The thing that held me captive rests,
And of a woman's rounded breasts.
And hopes and ancient questionings,
Have loved the oldest of all things!
And jubilant earth is glad of May,
The mystery of an elder day.
When we have sighed to fold our hands
And join the Pharaohs in the tomb,
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. From: "The Haunted House and Other Poems."
Eloquent master, thy melodious rage
Our latter song may not aspire to reach!
Our eyes beheld the magic of thy speech
When the sight stung thee, war with Heaven for each:
Only the rolling anthem of the beach
The mighty music of her mutiny:
And, praising numbers, men shall ask of thee:
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. From "The Haunted House."
THE GHOST OF OSCAR WILDE
Within the graveyard of Montmartre
Where wreath on wreath is piled,
Her genius like a child,
The wind was howling desolate,
The moon's dead face shone bright; The ghost of Heinrich Heine hailed
The sad wraith with delight: “Is it the slow worm's slimy touch
That makes you walk the night?
“Or rankles still the bitter jibe
Of fool and Pharisee,
Had nailed you to the Tree,
Of golden minstrelsy?"
Then spake the ghost of Oscar Wilde
While shrill the night hawk cried: “Sweet singer of the race that bare
Him of the Wounded Side, (I loved them not on earth, but men
Change somehow, having died).
“In Père La Chaise my head is laid,
My coffin-bed is cool,
The Psychopathic School!
“Tight though I draw my cerecloth, still
I hear the din thereof
They pierce my soul above,
The secret of his love.
Beyond the sea a land of heroes lies,
What time my boy's heart heard as in a sleep
With lyre and lute and wreath I come to thee;
The realm is thine of song and of the sea,
Turn not in scorn thine ivied brow from me,
Reverberant footsteps ghostlike came and went,
And my lips trembled as magnificent
Shakespeare the dome with incense redolent,
Each latter singer precious ornament,
A resonant column in the House of Song!”
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK.
2. SAMUEL, I. 26
Upon an adamantine scroll
When first I met you soul to soul.
Predestined when the world began,
As David's was to Jonathan.
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK.
I dare not slight the stranger at my door
Threadbare of garb, and sorrowful of lot,
Because I, all unworthy, knew him not.
From alien souls, in challenge glad and high;
Each new, dear, well-remembered loveliness;
Of fresh things, shy and green;
A NEW YEAR PRAYER
Oh, Young New Year—Take not these things from me:
Be strong in faith and courage: ever true
To that still Voice which urges you along. Press onward! There is nought can hinder you: