Overheard On A Saltmarsh

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  Nymph, nymph, what are your beads? Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush, I stole them out of the moon. Give me your beads, I want them. No. I will howl in the deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. - Harold Monro (1879 - 1932)

The Ghosts of Christmas: Ichabod, meet God

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O, Ichabod Crane,
O, Crane Ichabod!
Finds glory for self,
Steals glory from God.
The thin pedagogue from New England's coast,
Stuffs himself full of what pleases him most.

Skyward sail-born masts a-jut,
Arks slip by that hollow of Connecticut,
where Ichabod makes his fun in the day
by delighting his senses (yet wasting away).

Distracted by tales that give him the rise,
our dear Mr. Crane at night must devise
a safe way to go from this place to that,
and not lose his way, his nerve, or his hat.

Encouraging youth down the pathways of knowledge,
our chief tutor's days, weeks and years in the college
give him no comfort (O, poor Ichabod)
for the day he would stand alone before God,
who would say,
"Look at this!
Here one stands outside heavenly bliss!
Why did you keep for yourself all my glory?
You act as if headless! You know my story!
My life among men was to save all the lost,
yet you lived all your life as if you were the boss."

And Ichabod Crane would be turned away--
how depressing a story, wouldn't you say?

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