What! photograph in colors? ’Tis
a dream
And he who dreams it is not
overwise,
If colors are vibration they but seem,
And have no being. But
if Tyndall lies,
Why, come, then—photograph
my lady’s eyes.
Nay, friend, you can’t; the splendor
of their blue,
As on my own beclouded orbs
they rest,
To naught but vibratory motion’s
due,
As heart, head, limbs and
all I am attest.
How could her eyes, at rest themselves,
be making
In me so uncontrollable a shaking?
THE TABLES TURNED.
Over the man the street car ran,
And the driver did never grin.
“O killer of men, pray tell me when
Your laughter means to begin.
“Ten years to a day I’ve observed
you slay,
And I never have missed before
Your jubilant peals as your crunching
wheels
Were spattered with human
gore.
“Why is it, my boy, that you smother
your joy,
And why do you make no sign
Of the merry mind that is dancing behind
A solemner face than mine?”
The driver replied: “I would
laugh till I cried
If I had bisected you;
But I’d like to explain, if I can
for the pain,
’T is myself that I’ve
cut in two.”
