Uncertain was his hazy pace,
His blood shot eye was dim:
I gazed in wonder on his face,
In wonder gazed on him.
All haggard was his cold-pale cheek,
All haggard was his brow:
Methinks again I hear him speak,
Methinks I hear him now.
As he paced across his lonely room,
With lightly clenchëd fist,
As his glaring eyes did hideous loom,
Through the blackly gathering mist.
As with desperate hand he struck his brow,
And stamped upon the floor,
Methinks I hear his accents now,
In solemn lone once more,
“I gave my pen a careless flirt,”
He said midst deep-drawn sighs,
“And the scratchy thing the ink did spirt,
‘Right into both my eyes.”
B. B.