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Acolyte, v. 3, issue 2, whole no. 11, Summer 1945
Page 9
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PROSE POEMS Arthur F Hillman HERITAGE Now the poet was old, and he knew that his days on earth were numbered. So when he heard a soft knock at the door and glimpsed his tall, gray visitor he knew him. They went out together and down the narrow street, threading their way through busy, unheeding crowds. Death talked pleasantly, and the poet was content to listen. "There is my companion for tomorrow." Death nodded towards a bent old man on the opposite side. "And yonder..." a skeletal finger pointed at a young girl, face pinched with want and toil, who peered into a grimy shop window, "my tryst with her is but three days off." The poet pursed his lips grimly but said nothing. Now they had passed through the town and were out in the open country. And lo, as they journeyed amid the tall grass of meadow a youth passed them. His little curls were crowned with laurel and his face was fair and frank to see. A tiny piping voice rose in sweet notes of gladness. Death scowled visibly and averted his eyes, and the poet smiled gently. "There goes one you will never accompany," he said, "There goes my child." And the twain wended their way, while the infant song skipped and danced and laughed at the bees and the nodding flowers. ---o0o--- THE BELLE OF THE BALL As I came into the ballroom soft music floated forward to greet me. The swirl of dancers under the gleaming chandeliers, the rustle of silk dresses, the gay, tinkling laughter, had all the enchantment of some rare and remote fairyland. One I saw who laughed and flirted more than the rest. Very fair she was to look upon, and beau fought to pay her attentions. Yet I fancied the ripple of her amusement as she taunted her admirers had the malice of mockery and I thought the smile on her painted face false. So I turned to one who sat near the door unnoticed. "Who is that creature so fair, who is attracting all the attention?" My companion's voice was low and quiet, and pain lurked in its depths. "She is called Flattery." The eyes that looked into mine had so direct a gaze that my own dropped in confusion. "I know her well. I am her cousin Truth." ---o0o--- RELEASE In a hidden, cobwebbed corner I found the book. It was mouldy with age, and dampness had gnawed at the covers, and mildew had trampled carelessly across the pages. Yet when I opened the volume a host of gauzy iridescent dreams flew out. I read absorbed, and the cavalcade, the winged visions of forgotten poets, fluttered in clouds about my head. And after many hours, my parents found the book and I. Scornfully they tossed the tattered volume into the fire, though I begged and pleaded. As I lay in my bed, and a tear ran down my cheek, a little winged dream tiptoed to my shoulder. "We will never leave you," he comforted. "You have set us free, and we will follow wherever you go. Down the corridor of years, through the doorways of experience, our legions shall abide with you." And he soared upwards with his fellows, the golden wings beating about my head. -- 9 --
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PROSE POEMS Arthur F Hillman HERITAGE Now the poet was old, and he knew that his days on earth were numbered. So when he heard a soft knock at the door and glimpsed his tall, gray visitor he knew him. They went out together and down the narrow street, threading their way through busy, unheeding crowds. Death talked pleasantly, and the poet was content to listen. "There is my companion for tomorrow." Death nodded towards a bent old man on the opposite side. "And yonder..." a skeletal finger pointed at a young girl, face pinched with want and toil, who peered into a grimy shop window, "my tryst with her is but three days off." The poet pursed his lips grimly but said nothing. Now they had passed through the town and were out in the open country. And lo, as they journeyed amid the tall grass of meadow a youth passed them. His little curls were crowned with laurel and his face was fair and frank to see. A tiny piping voice rose in sweet notes of gladness. Death scowled visibly and averted his eyes, and the poet smiled gently. "There goes one you will never accompany," he said, "There goes my child." And the twain wended their way, while the infant song skipped and danced and laughed at the bees and the nodding flowers. ---o0o--- THE BELLE OF THE BALL As I came into the ballroom soft music floated forward to greet me. The swirl of dancers under the gleaming chandeliers, the rustle of silk dresses, the gay, tinkling laughter, had all the enchantment of some rare and remote fairyland. One I saw who laughed and flirted more than the rest. Very fair she was to look upon, and beau fought to pay her attentions. Yet I fancied the ripple of her amusement as she taunted her admirers had the malice of mockery and I thought the smile on her painted face false. So I turned to one who sat near the door unnoticed. "Who is that creature so fair, who is attracting all the attention?" My companion's voice was low and quiet, and pain lurked in its depths. "She is called Flattery." The eyes that looked into mine had so direct a gaze that my own dropped in confusion. "I know her well. I am her cousin Truth." ---o0o--- RELEASE In a hidden, cobwebbed corner I found the book. It was mouldy with age, and dampness had gnawed at the covers, and mildew had trampled carelessly across the pages. Yet when I opened the volume a host of gauzy iridescent dreams flew out. I read absorbed, and the cavalcade, the winged visions of forgotten poets, fluttered in clouds about my head. And after many hours, my parents found the book and I. Scornfully they tossed the tattered volume into the fire, though I begged and pleaded. As I lay in my bed, and a tear ran down my cheek, a little winged dream tiptoed to my shoulder. "We will never leave you," he comforted. "You have set us free, and we will follow wherever you go. Down the corridor of years, through the doorways of experience, our legions shall abide with you." And he soared upwards with his fellows, the golden wings beating about my head. -- 9 --
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