the terrible sight
of me,
For my head was bound with a star, and crown'd with the fire of utmost
hell,
And I made this song with a brazen tongue and a more than fiendish yell:

"Oh! curse you all, for the sake of men who have liv'd and died for
spite,
And be doubly curst for the dark ye make where there ought to be but
light,
And be trebly curst by the deadly spell of a woman's lasting hate,--
And drop ye down to the mouth of hell who would climb to the Golden
Gate!"

Then the world grew green, and grim and grey at the horrible noise I
made,
And held up its hands in a pious way when I call'd a spade a spade;
But I cared no whit for the blame of it, and nothing at all for its
praise,
And the whole consign'd with a tranquil mind to a sempiternal blaze!

All this have I sped, and have brought me back to work at the set of
sun,
And I set my seal to the thoughts I feel in the twilight one by one,
For I speak but sooth in the name of Truth when I write such things as
these;

And the whole I send to a critical friend who is learned in Kiplingese!

_Unknown._

MARTIN LUTHER AT POTSDAM

What lightning shall light it? What thunder shall tell it?
In the height of the height, in the depth of the deep?
Shall the sea-storm declare it, or paint it, or smell it?
Shall the price of a slave be its treasure to keep?
When the night has grown near with the gems on her bosom,
When the white of mine eyes is the whiteness of snow,
When the cabman--in liquor--drives a blue roan, a kicker,
Into the land of the dear long ago.

Ah!--Ah, again!--You will come to me, fall on me--
You are _so_ heavy, and I am _so_ flat.
And I? I shall not be at home when you call on me,
But stray down the wind like a gentleman's hat:
I shall list to the stars when the music is purple,
Be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled into rings;
Turn to sparks, and then straightway get stuck in the gateway
That stands between speech and unspeakable things.

As I mentioned before, by what light is it lighted?
Oh! Is it fourpence, or piebald, or gray?
Is it a mayor that a mother has knighted
Or is it a horse of the sun and the day?
Is it a pony? If so, who will change it?
O golfer, be quiet, and mark where it scuds,
And think of its paces--of owners and races--
Relinquish the links for the s