Felo de Se
If I were stone dead and buried under,
Is there a part of me would still wander,
Shiver, mourn, and cry Alack,
With no body to its back?
When brain grew mealy, turned to dust,
Would lissom Mind, too, suffer rust?
Immortal Soul grow imbecile,
Having no brain to think and feel?
—Or grant it be as priests say,
And growth come on my death-day:
Suppose Growth came: would Certainty?
Or would Mind still a quester be,
Frame deeper mysteries, not find them out,
And wander in a larger Doubt?
—Alas, if to Mind’s petty stir
Death prove so poor a silencer:
Though veins when emptied a few hours
Of this hot blood, might suckle flowers:
From spiritual flames that scorch me
Never, never were I free!
Then back, Death! Till I call thee
Hast come too soon!
... Thou silly worm, gnaw not
Yet thine intricate cocoon.
The Birds-nester
A Memorial, to an Unfortunate Young Man, Expelled from his University for a Daring Neologism
Critic, that hoary Gull, in air
Whistles, whistles shrilly:
Climbing Youth, beware
Murder and mockery!
That wheeling, hoary gull
Bats on his thin skull,
Claws at his steady eyes,
Whinnies and cries:
Youth flings the gibe back.
Hundreds of wings clack,
Bright eyes encircle, search
For foothold’s fatal lurch.
‘See now he shifts his grip:
Loosen each finger-tip!
Whew, brothers, shall he slip?’
Crack-tendoned, answers Youth
‘I seek for Eggs of Truth.’
Claws clutch his hair,
Beaks prick his eyes—
‘Whistle, Despair, Despair!
With ancient quills prise
Every hand’s—foot’s—hold,
Wedged in the rock’s fold!
Batter and scream, bewilder
This impious babel-buil ...
whew!
Down he is rocketing falling twisting.’
For days and nights
Time’s curly breakers
Winnow him, wash him ...
What is that stirs?
What wing from the heights
Slants to that murdered limb?
Gull’s peering eye bath spotted
Something the sea has rotted.
Secretly to the feast
Dives big gull, less, and least;
For Age never dies:
Age shall pick out his eyes,
Taste them with critick zest,
—Age knows the Best!
—Age shall build his lair
Out of his hair:
Gulp his small splintered bones
To his gizzard, for stones:
Feed on his words
All his young woolly birds.
Say not he died in vain!
All that he cried in pain
Ear-cocked Age hearkens to
Someday. Declares it true
Someday.
What though he fell? The jest
Feathers old Critic’s nest.
By arrangement with the author, and with the gracious permission of his publishers, The Golden Cockerel Press, Waltham Saint Lawrence, Berkshire, England, this edition of Gipsy-Night and Other Poems becomes the third publication issued by The Private Press of Will Ransom: Maker of Books, 14 West Washington Street, Chicago, U. S. A.
Composition and presswork by Will Ransom, assisted by Edmond A. Hunt; binding by Anthony Faifer. Printing finished September 30th, 1922.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious printer errors were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling was preserved.