Acadiensis/Volume 2/Number 2/The Maniac
The Maniac.
Cold as the nether deeps of polar sea,
And storm-swept as the peak that scrapes the sky,
His soul glares outward with a wordless cry;
His hands, through gratings, grasp immensity!
Matted and worn and pale—with whelming glee
He screams to phantoms sweeping wildly by;
Phantoms, wolf-eyed—intent to kill or die,
Or crush the Universe to anarchy!
And storm-swept as the peak that scrapes the sky,
His soul glares outward with a wordless cry;
His hands, through gratings, grasp immensity!
Matted and worn and pale—with whelming glee
He screams to phantoms sweeping wildly by;
Phantoms, wolf-eyed—intent to kill or die,
Or crush the Universe to anarchy!
A piping thrush begins his simple lay,
And, straightway, gibing apes with clasped hands
Dance to his music on far, golden sands
Where shines the summer sun through endless day!
A chime—from green fields, fragrant, undefiled,
Lo! through his grating, smiles a little child!
Charles Campbell.
And, straightway, gibing apes with clasped hands
Dance to his music on far, golden sands
Where shines the summer sun through endless day!
A chime—from green fields, fragrant, undefiled,
Lo! through his grating, smiles a little child!
Charles Campbell.