Who fashioned thy form, Thy hideous shape, With face like a fiend, With feet like an ape, With animal legs Growing out of thy head, And a sinister leer O'er thy countenance spread? What manner of man Could conceive such a bowl As a holder of ink? Was he lacking in soul? Were esthetic forms Overdone or passé That he should have schemed To cast thee this way? Perchance this foul fiend Who once dodged Luther's ink, Inspired thy lines, And his motive I think, To prove that he lives As of yore, and to lure The poor poet's mind From such thoughts as are pure. I've wondered at times Why my pen seemed possessed To write bitter things, And why I was obsessed By unholy thoughts Of a cynical trend, Which, penned by my hand, Grieved alike foe and friend. I see now,—'twas thou Who hadst guided my pen, A grave waits for thee In the depths of my den, Thou canst grin if thou willst But the brass of thy soul Shall not enter mine To bewitch and control. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD by CONRAD AIKEN GHOSTS OF A LUNATIC ASYLUM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE LOON ON FORRESTER'S POND by HAYDEN CARRUTH CAESAR'S LOST TRANSPORT SHIPS by ROBERT FROST A POEM FROM BOULDER RIDGE by JAMES GALVIN |