Intermezzo

THAT sinister, that sombre poet-waif Presses his brow against the window-pane, (That window-pane of cruel, wicked glass), Watching the sour and curdled flakes of snow. With eyes like pale grey membranes fixed and glazed Ever he stares upon snow-silent fields, And sweating skies that lean towards the earth Like a great toper leaning at a bar. Ever the mournful cries of mountain-apes Echo, re-echo, and abysmally, Ever the sour snow falls. And where’s the moon? It must hang high, oh, somewhere in the heavens. And somewhere, waking in the middle night Soft longing arms spread out in love’s embrace Find nothing, no one; in a dazed despair Grope for a form to clasp, to touch, and then Fall limply back in dismal loneliness. Perpetual Penelopes unspin The webs they spun meticulous at day. Somewhere the honey-throated nightingale Is voiceless for the burden of his love, And somewhere it is good to be alive.... That sinister, that sombre poet-waif So tired to tears and tearless, with those eyes Airily floating in eternal stare, Bartered his soul for void philosophies. But suddenly he flings a weary laugh And walks into the jangling painted world.