Shapes of Clay

'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal

Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead.

He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding,

As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said.

"Sacred stranger"—I addressed him with a reverence befitting

The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore;

'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing

One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"—

"Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection,

But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread.

How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander

By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?"

Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making,

Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye

On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy,

Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply:

"O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit—

I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head.

I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal

To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed.

"Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me

And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more.

For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me,

Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'"

Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection,

For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog.

So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman

Can appreciate the fashion of your merit—buy a dog."