clock menu more-arrow no yes

Filed under:

Bard Marchand returns: "Is this a Bauer Vapor which I see before me?"

Is this a Bauer Vapor which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A stick of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I deke.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was skating
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon puck marks,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked Habs abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft, voodoo & wizardry celebrates
Pale Corsi's offerings, and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides skating toward his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set ice,
Hear not my steps, which way they skate, for fear
Thy very icechips prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, goalies live,
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.