As I sit beside my little study window, looking down
From the heights of contemplation (attic front) upon the town
(Attic front, per week – with board, of course – a sov’reign and a crown);-
As I sit-(these sad digressions, though, are much to be deplored)-
In my lonely little attic-(it is all I can afford;
And I should have mentioned, washing not included in the board);-
As I sit-(these wild parentheses my very soul abhors)-
High above the ills of life, its petty rumours, paltry wars-
(The attic back is cheaper, but it wants a chest of drawers);-
In the purpling light of half-past six before the stars are met,
While the stricken sun clings fondly to his royal mantle yet,
Dying glorious on the hill-tops in reluctant violet,-
Just the time that favours vision, blissful moments that unbar
The inner sight (assisted by a very mild cigar),
To behold the things that are not, side by side with those that are,-
Just the very light and very time that suit the bard’s complaint,
When through present, past, and future, roams his soul without restraint-
When no clearer are the things that are than are the things that ain’t;-
With a dual apperception, metaphysical, profound,
Past and present running parallel, I scan the scene around-
(Were there two of us the attic front would only be a pound).-
Beneath mine eyes the buried past arises from the tomb,
Not cadaverous or ghostly, but in all its living bloom-
(I would rather pay the odds than have a partner in my room).
How the complex now contrasteth with the elemental then!
Tide of change outflowing flow of ink, outstripping stride of pen!
(Unless it were . . . . but no . . . . they only take in single men).
Where trackless wilderness lay wide, a hundred ages through-
I can see a man with papers, from my attic point of view,
Who for gath’ring house assessments gets a very decent screw.
Where forest-contiguity assuaged the summer heats,
It is now an argued question, when the City Council meets,
If we mightn’t buy a tree or two to shade the glaring streets.
Where no sound announced the flight of time, not even crow of cock,
I can see the gun that stuns the town with monitory shock,
And a son of that same weapon hired to shoot at one o’clock.
Where the kangaroo gave hops, the “old man” fleetest of the fleet,
Mrs. Pursy gives a “hop” to-night to all the town’s
(James Brunton Stephens)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Life Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Nature Poems, Past Poems, Sons Poems, Summer Poems, Cities Poems, Change Poems, Future PoemsBased on Keywords: cadaverous, monitory, outstripping, pursy, parentheses, digressions, outflowing, apperception