The Phantom I Shades Down in the fathomless despair Where destiny has locked me in, Where light nor joy descends and where (Sole lodgers of nights dreary inn) An artist god has set apart In mockery, I paint the murk; where like a ghoulish cook at work boiling and munching on my heart- At moments gleams and grows apace A phantom languorous and bright A dream of oriental Grace. When it attains its utmost height, I know at last the lovely thing; Its she ! girl dark yet glimmering. II The perfume Hast thou inhaled ---- O reader, say !-- with zest and lazy greed, the old Incense that chapel arches hold Or the stale musk of sachet? O magic spell, O ecstasy ! To make the present yield the past! Its thus on a beloved breast Love culls the flowers of memory. The tresses long about her face --A living censer, left the place With strange wild odours all astir, And in her velvet muslin, lace Candid and girlish, over her Hovered a perfume, Faint of fur. III The frame A fine frame to picutre brings (Through from a brush illustrious) A charm strange and mysterious, Secluding it from other things. Thus jewels, metals, gold became Adpated to her beauty bright; nothing obscured its perfect light, All things about her seemed a frame. Often one might have said she found Her garments loved her, for she drowned her naked body in embraces. Of voluptuous silks and laces; a monkeys childlike grace she gave To every movement gay or grave. IV The portrait Death disease make ashes of the flames that wrapped our youth around. Of her soft eyes, ablaze with love Her mouth, wherein my heart was drowned Of her long kisses magic spell, Her passion sharp as Phoebus dart what have I now? O woeful heart ! naught but a faded old pastel. Dying like me in solitude, Paling each day in every part beneath times tireless pinions rude.... Dark murderer of life and art, Never shalt thou in me destroy her who was once my frame my joy! Lewis Piaget Shanks