And here stalks Melville, Rudyard Kipling too.
Whale’s Herman’s White, Kim’s scribe an Indian hue,
Lord Russell, wily midget, now entrains
His top hat jumbo-size, to cup his brains
And challenge Shaw and Chesterton to chats
While Poe, subsided, scowling, frets their hats
To mend their politics or bend each mind
While steaming Kipling’s Country of the Blind.
Ah, hark! Their talk is gold and seldom tin
And boring? Never! God prevent that sin!
Muse hone their tongues to razor-sharpened wits
So Shaw can rave while proud Lord Russell sits
And I the modest mouse who locks his lip
And mutters not a mote along the trip,
Most gladly hidden—tucked between these brains
That locomote the night with idea trains,
Each locked to each and each a brighter car
And this a nova, that old Halley’s star,
A light-year comet blazed across our sight.
To teach our railway schools throughout our night.
Their philosophic crumbs I snatch and eat,
The hiccoughing of Shaw? my God, a treat!
While Poe grows quieter the more they storm,
His snowy moon brow pale, his tongue lukewarm,
But I am glad for him, for while they range
Poe’s eyes with mine do some wry joke exchange,
I see the Black Cat hid where Poe’
s seams split
His head a Pendulum, his breast a Pit,
While all about our favorite authors drink