*Image found HERE
As it is a custom, every year on my birthday I like to leave you with some poems to read, some you may have not encountered before, for they are usually ancient, prolonged,old. Hope you enjoy reading them and if you feel so inclined, leave me a poem in return.

The Wizard in the Street

[Concerning Edgar Allan Poe]

Who now will praise the Wizard in the street 
With loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet — 
This Jingle-man, of strolling players born, 
Whom holy folk have hurried by in scorn, 
This threadbare jester, neither wise nor good, 
With melancholy bells upon his hood? 

The hurrying great ones scorn his Raven’s croak, 
And well may mock his mystifying cloak 
Inscribed with runes from tongues he has not read 
To make the ignoramus turn his head. 
The artificial glitter of his eyes 
Has captured half-grown boys. They think him wise. 
Some shallow player-folk esteem him deep, 
Soothed by his steady wand’s mesmeric sweep. 

The little lacquered boxes in his hands 
Somehow suggest old times and reverenced lands. 
From them doll-monsters come, we know not how: 
Puppets, with Cain’s black rubric on the brow. 
Some passing jugglers, smiling, now concede 
That his best cabinet-work is made, indeed 
By bleeding his right arm, day after day, 
Triumphantly to seal and to inlay. 
They praise his little act of shedding tears; 
A trick, well learned, with patience, thro’ the years. 

I love him in this blatant, well-fed place. 
Of all the faces, his the only face 
Beautiful, tho’ painted for the stage, 
Lit up with song, then torn with cold, small rage, 
Shames that are living, loves and hopes long dead, 
Consuming pride, and hunger, real, for bread. 

Here by the curb, ye Prophets thunder deep: 
“What Nations sow, they must expect to reap,” 
Or haste to clothe the race with truth and power, 
With hymns and shouts increasing every hour. 
Useful are you. There stands the useless one 
Who builds the Haunted Palace in the sun. 
Good tailors, can you dress a doll for me 
With silks that whisper of the sounding sea? 
One moment, citizens, — the weary tramp 
Unveileth Psyche with the agate lamp. 
Which one of you can spread a spotted cloak 
And raise an unaccounted incense smoke 
Until within the twilight of the day 
Stands dark Ligeia in her disarray, 
Witchcraft and desperate passion in her breath 
And battling will, that conquers even death? 

And now the evening goes. No man has thrown 
The weary dog his well-earned crust or bone. 
We grin and hie us home and go to sleep, 
Or feast like kings till midnight, drinking deep. 
He drank alone, for sorrow, and then slept, 
And few there were that watched him, few that wept. 
He found the gutter, lost to love and man. 
Too slowly came the good Samaritan. 



Madman’s Song

Better to see your cheek grown hollow,
Better to see your temple worn,
Than to forget to follow, follow,
After the sound of a silver horn.

Better to bind your brow with willow
And follow, follow until you die,
Than to sleep with your head on a golden pillow,
Nor lift it up when the hunt goes by.

Better to see your cheek grow sallow
And your hair grown gray, so soon, so soon,
Than to forget to hallo, hallo,
After the milk-white hounds of the moon.

Elinor Morton Wylie

~ by Oloriel on March 25, 2019.

10 Responses to “Vingt-neuf”

  1. Thank you for the poems and wish you very many happy and inspiring returns!

  2. Happy Birthday! 🙂

  3. Happy Birthday and many more.

  4. Срећан рођендан! 😉

  5. Thanks for sharing these wonderful poems. My best wishes to you for a wonderful year ahead, Oloriel! It’s always a pleasure to hear from you. 🙂

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