SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE
An anonymous poem
- H that my
soul a marrow-bone might seize!
- For the old egg of my desire is broken,
- Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and
- As the mild melancholy contents grease
- My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees.
- Time's trashy purse is as a taken token
- Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken
- By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.
- And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn?
- Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast?
- Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn?
- Or swallow any pill from out the past?
- Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn
- Like a potato riding on the blast.
"Sonnet Found in a Deserted
Mad House" is reprinted from A Nonsense Anthology.
Ed. Carolyn Wells. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915.