THE FACE

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 To-morrows 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!