|
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree....
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the local nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
And then, when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
With walls and towers girdled round:
They thought, If only Kubla could but get a whack at that,
We’d put up even money now, with Kubla at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Kubla, as did also Willy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
But oh! that deep romantic chasm!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball
And when the dust had lifted and men saw what had occurred,
There was Willy safe at second and Flynn a-huggin’ third
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell,
It rumbled through the valley; it rattled in the dell;
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river,
For Kubla, mighty Kubla, was advancing to the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt,
Then sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean.
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Kubla stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there,
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
“That ain’t my style,” said Kubla. “Steeeeerike one!,” the umpire said.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!...
From the benches black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him; kill the umpire!” shouted someone from the stand,—
And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Kubla raised his hand.
He signalled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
But Kubla still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Steeeeerike two!”
The sneer is gone from Kubla’s lip; his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
And now the pitcher holds the ball,
Oh, weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
And now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Kubla’s blow,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Oh! somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there’s no joy in Xanadu— mighty Kubla has struck out.
|
