Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/122

Louis Untermeyer Pipe, breath and summer never going out— To vegetate through all eternity. . . But no such everlastingness for me! God, if he can, keep me from such a blight.

Death, it is but the long, cool night, And Life's a dull and sultry day. It darkens; I grow sleepy; I am weary of the light.

Over my bed a strange tree gleams And there a nightingale is loud ''She sings of love, love only. . .   I hear it, even in dreams.''

My Mouche, the other day as I lay here, Slightly propped up upon this mattress-grave In which I've been interred these few eight years, I saw a dog, a little pampered slave, Running about and barking. I would have given Heaven could I have been that dog; to thrive Like him, so senseless—and so much alive! And once I called myself a blithe Hellene, Who am too much in love with life to live. (The shrug is pure Hebraic). . . For what I've been, A lenient Lord will tax me—and forgive. Dieu me pardonnera—c'est son metier. But this is jesting. There are other scandals You haven't heard. . . Can it be dusk so soon? 108