THERE was a curious quiet for a space Directly following: and in the face Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw Long ere the crash of speech. -- He broke the spell -- The host: -- The Traveler's story, told so well, He said, had wakened there within his breast A yearning, as it were, to know @3the rest@1 -- That all unwritten sequence that the Lord Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword, Some awful session of His patient thought. Just then it was, his good old mother caught His blazing eye -- so that its fire became But as an ember -- though it burned the same. It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard It was the @3Heavenly@1 Parent never erred, And not the @3earthly@1 one that had such grace: "Therefore, my son," she said, with lifted face And eyes, "let no one dare anticipate The Lord's intent. While @3He@1 waits, @3we@1 will wait." And with a gust of reverence genuine Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in -- @3"'If the darkened heavens lower, Wrap thy cloak around thy form; Though the tempest rise in power, God is mightier than the storm!'"@1 Which utterance reached the restive children all As something humorous. And then a call For @3him@1 to tell a story, or to "say A funny piece." His face fell right away: He knew no story worthy. Then he must @3Declaim@1 for them: In that, he could not trust His memory. And then a happy thought Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought Some scrappy clippings into light and said There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read Last April in "The Sentinel." He had It there in print, and knew all would be glad To hear it rendered by the author. And, All reasons for declining at command Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose And said: "I am discovered, I suppose. Though I have taken all precautions not To sign my name to any verses wrought By my transcendent genius, yet, you see, Fame wrests my secret from me bodily; So I must needs confess I did this deed Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead One whit of unintention in my crime -- My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme. -- "'Maeonides rehearsed a tale of arms, And Naso told of curious meta@3mur@1-phoses; Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms, While crazy @3I@1've made poetry @3on purposes!'@1 In other words, I stand convicted -- need I say -- by my own doing, as I read." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANDROMEDA by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE UNPARDONABLE SIN by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE MEETING OF THE WATERS by THOMAS MOORE THE STORK by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM ANDROMEDA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SHELLEY AND TRELAWNEY by JULIA COOLEY ALTROCCHI |