He knew the stars from "Dog" to Mars; And he could tell you, too, Their distances--as though the cars Had often checked him through-- And time 'twould take to reach the sun, Or by the "Milky Way," Drop in upon the moon, or run The homeward trip, or stay. With Logic at his fingers' ends, Theology in mind, He often entertained his friends Until they died resigned; And with inquiring mind intent Upon Alchemic arts A dynamite experiment-- . . . . . . . A man of many parts! THE FROG Who am I but the Frog--the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to-- And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue. What am I but a King--a King!-- For the royal robes I wear-- A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere! I can talk to the Night--the Night!-- Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring. The Storm swoops down, and he blows--and blows,-- While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak. And I can see through the sky--the sky-- As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass-- And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass. To your Sovereign lord all hail--all hail!-- To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim! DEAD SELVES How many of my selves are dead? The ghosts of many haunt me: Lo, The baby in the tiny bed With rockers on, is blanketed And sleeping in the long ago; And so I ask, with shaking head, How many of my selves are dead? A little face with drowsy eyes And lisping lips comes mistily From out the faded past, and tries The prayers a mother breathed with sighs Of anxious care in teaching me; But face and form and prayers have fled-- How many of my selves are dead? The little naked feet that slipped In truant paths, and led the way Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped In streams forbidden--where are they? In vain I listen for their tread-- How many of my selves are dead? The awkward boy the teacher caught Inditing letters filled with love, Who was compelled, for all he fought, To read aloud each tender thought Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." I wonder where he hides his head-- How many of my selves are dead?