BY DR. AGONSON
A merry tune, a dancing air,
proclaimed the coming of a fair—
and coming soon—I know not where.
It’s coming here or coming there.
I know the moon and madness pair;
her soft, pale beams are not a stair,
yet I, a lunatic, will always dare
to grasp her light—to my despair.
I’ll buy two tickets for the show.
I wonder now if I should go.
Was I too quick? Am I too slow?
I fear that I shall never know.
I trim my wick, I watch the glow,
the hours of night will ever flow,
and I am sick with silent woe:
On winter nights, cold winds will blow.
Tale Told 