  Ah! Dame Gossip fabulous! You have worn the quiet smile, Till your mouth is drawn as trim As a Quaker’s beaver brim; And when rumor runs a mile, Never heard the rascal’s name; If the neighbors bring the shoe, Tug and tug it won’t fit you; If it does, ah! shifty Dame, Rumor’s last must be the same! Hey! this comedy began When the earth was blithe and young, When the less fair of the fair Daughters of the world of men, Whispered in their errant hair, How their sisters of the glance, Clear and deep of star in blue, Met the eager sons of God, In the valley, in the dew, On the myrtle-scented sod: And the truants from the spheres Heard like donging of herd-bells, In the flow of harp and flute, How those others in eclipse, Withered up in jealousies, Crowning malice in the eyes, Over malice on the lips, Hissed their word of hate and lies. Ah! these truants from the spheres Learnt the human in the note Of the goddess, and were ware How of all the torrent gold Snakes were half and half was hair. Yet the ages were as one Heap of burnt and calcined stars, Ere her popular crown was run In the mould of human fears, Ere her sceptre had been cast, Tempered steel with foolish tears. Personed like a regnant queen, Cold as pole-ice, hard as quartz, Loathly as the livid, lean Adder of the triple tongue, Basilisk eyes that reap and glean, And a mind alert, elate, With the splendor of her wit, Springing through a smoky fate, With a gleam of hell-fire lit. And she wanders from her throne (So these cringing lieges state), While her shape still glooms it there; And but give the wizard crone Two small juttings in the air, Spiderlike she weaves her web, From her ancient ventral store, Till the whole great house is meshed With her legends, grim and hoar. Or she starts a quiet mouse, Feeding in the native cheese, And a wolf springs from the rind, Bloated out to what you please. What she does not say she thinks; Crafty, with a few dry winks, Drops her poison in the eye, Watching while it works and sinks; When the eye is diamond clear, Comes she with a slimy sigh, Bred to catch the dullard ear, Opening with the formula, Stereoed to the devil’s phrase In the human words, “They say;” Then the burden of the tale Crawls in after like a snail. Why, her countenance is blank, And her eye is dull as dulse; But the finger dwells awhile Calming on the plunging pulse, Just for, say, a nunnery smile, Till with magic overmuch, All the story is conveyed, Through the nerves intensive played, Innuendo of the touch. Once afoot the quarry flies, From the hunter in the mind; With a prudent, vacant smile, Dull Saint Virgin drops her eyes, Gives the word with quiet guile, Guarding with her sainted wish, For the error of the tale, The dear souls from blast and bale. And the fighter to his trull Tells his version of the yarn; With his bull-brain all afire, Charges down the ruddy rag Of the world above his ire, Tramps the tale in slag and mire. And the comments run from “Pish,” To the most convenient curse, In the beggar’s damning purse. So the story rolls and grows Crescive as a cloudy head, Budding silver in the blue, From black root of thunder bred, With the lightning splitting through. Every subject stricken blind With black fearing of the Dame, Passes on the strangest talk, Like a counterfeited coin; And the fear of her is wild, Works like acid in the blood, And the man is worse than child, Saved by innocent hardihood. How he supplicates and whines, When he knows his fame is out, And sees springing into lines All the fables, shout on shout. Thinks to run the talk to earth, Talk that carries rumor’s lease; Cloudy talk of vapor birth, Chases on the plains of peace, Or where tides of trade convulse; Something mantled like a shape Grasps at last with pounding pulse— Mist he holds; while mocking rings All the riot sprung anew, With the flap and clap of wings. Nay, my craven, you who fear All this cackle of the crew, Carping at your coward ear! We who know the Dame so well, Whence she sprang and how she grew, Do not crown her deep with hell; She is but an earthly shape Springing from the parent ape, Nothing wild with power or eld, Nothing older than the race; And this skull-face that you dread, Is the image of your head. Deep in honor as the star, Spreading sparkle over sea, You may see the Dame at will, Nothing formed for dread or dree, Contemplate her and be still: She has worn that quiet smile, Till her mouth is drawn as trim As a Quaker’s beaver brim: Her light eyes seem clear of guile, And her smile is half demure, Half malicious. Let her play One of her protean pranks, Show her fangs and start her prey. Now she dares the comic sprite, Laughter only comes to light; Ripples outward like a flag Over towers inviolate, Sparkles April as a brook, Breaks where sun and shadow flit; Laughter silver and secure, From the crystal wells of wit, Springing sanely, springing pure. Mark your Dame of many crowns, How she hardens into sphinx, When she hears the airy ring Of the master that she owns, How, amorphous bulk, she shrinks, How she trails and leers and winks, Just a moment of gray rags, Ere the wind has pounced and packed All h
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