The Southern Cross
(A Frustration)
Four stars on Night's brow, or Night's bosom,
Whichever the reader prefers;
Or Night without either may do some,
Each one to his taste or to hers.
Four stars—to continue inditing,
So long as I feel in the vein—
Hullo! what the deuce is that biting?
Mosquitos again!
Oh glories not gilded but golden,
Oh daughters of Night unexcelled,
By the sons of the north unbeholden,
By our sons (if we have them) beheld;
Oh jewels the midnight enriching,
Oh four which are double of twain!
Oh mystical — bother the itching!
Mosquitos again!
You alone I can anchor my eye on,
Of you and you only I'll write:
And I now look awry on Orion,
That once was my chiefest delight.
Ye exalt me high over the petty
Conditions of pleasure and pain—
Oh Heaven! here are these maladetti
Mosquitos again!
The poet should ever be placid.
Oh vex not his soul or his skin!
Shall I scare them with sulphurous acid?
It is done, and afresh I begin.
Lucid orbs!—that last sting very sore is;
I am fain to leave off, I am fain;
It has given me uncommon dolores—
Simpliciter, pain.
Not quite what the shape of a cross is—
A little lop-sided, I own—
Confound your infernal proboscis,
Inserted well nigh to the bone!
Queen-lights of the heights of high heaven,
Ensconced in the crystal inane—
Oh me! here are seventy times seven
Mosquitos again!
Oh horns of a mighty trapezium!
Quadrilateral area, hail!
Oh bright as the light of magnesium!—
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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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