In the hollow spaces I see a face As I go whistling to my Dear, And in those lineaments I trace The ultimate Fear. Throned on the dark that face I see, As I go whistling to my Doll; Of human terror the apogee -- Fol-de-rol! The wreckage of the whole damned race, As I go whistling to my white bird, Is in that wavering ghastly face That speaks no word! Is that face moulded by treachery As I go whistling to my Poll, And carved by lust out of lechery? Fol-lol-de-rol! Has it woven itself out of ancient sorrows As I go whistling to my maid, Out of all the To-days that to all the Tomorrows Shriek -- "betrayed!" I like not to see that face in the night, As I go whistling to my own: A terrible face for the sweet moonlight To shine upon! But as long as those lips utter no sound, As I go whistling to my Troll, All is yet well above the ground, Fol-lol-de-rol! Oh white, white lips that hang so mute, As I go whistling to my Love, That ultimate Fear would be absolute If you should move! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN THE BROOK by ROBERT FROST TO ABRAHAM LINCOLN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE DOLL BELIEVERS by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: COONEY POTTER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO W.P.: 2 by GEORGE SANTAYANA |