Uncle Walt [Walt Mason], the Poet Philosopher — John Shaqi
Uncle Walt [Walt Mason], the Poet PhilosopherMason, Walt
General
Uncle Walt [Walt Mason], the Poet Philosopher
Mason, Walt
Poetry
I gazed upon that mighty flood, that writhed as though in pain or woe,
and fell with dull and sick'ning thud, into the chasm far below. If
there's a man with soul so dead that he unmoved can view that scene, he
surely has a basswood head, and had it carved when it was green. O noble
falls! Stupendous sight! Dame Nature's most emphatic fact! The gods were
on their job all right when they designed that cataract. All other
wonders are a dream, a foolish, feeble phantasy! The pauper falls of
Europe seem absurd when they're compared with thee! Had I but seen thee
in thy prime, when this proud nation had its dawn, in that fair,
distant, golden time, before they strapped thy harness on, then I'd have
written thee an ode, to make thy waters pause a while; but go and drag
along thy load, since beasts of burden are in style. Alas, that two such
handsome falls, that should be kicking up their heels, come forth like
horses from their stalls, to turn a million greasy wheels! To grind up
glue, make lightning rods, and furnish cheap electric light--no wonder
that the nine great gods look down in anger at the sight!
_A Rainy Night_
I hear the plashing of the rain upon the roof, upon the pane, it murmurs
at the door; it patters forth a futile boast; it whispers like a timid
ghost; it streams upon the floor. And as I sit me here alone, and listen
to its monotone, strange fancies come and go; I seem to see, distinct
and plain dim faces drawn upon the pane, of friends I used to know. Soft
voices whisper in the rain, and friends I ne'er shall see again, are
crying bitterly; the raindrops seem to be their tears, and o'er the
misty void of years, they're calling, calling me. O shadows from a
starless shore, begone, and torture me no more, and leave me here alone!
I fear the voices in the rain, the voices vibrant with their pain--I
fear the spectres that complain, in weary monotone! But still they chide
me at the door, and whisper there for evermore, and murmur in their woe;
I hear them in the tempest's swell, I hear them sigh, I hear them yell:
"Where is that old green umberell, you swiped two years ago?"
_The Wireless_
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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