Out of the lights and roar of cities, <br />Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River, <br />Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken, <br />The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt, <br />But to hide a wounded pride as well. <br />To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds -- <br />I, gifted with tongues and wisdom, <br />Sunk here to the dust of the justice court, <br />A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs, -- <br />I, whom fortune smiled on! I in a village, <br />Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse, <br />Out of the lore of golden years, <br />Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit <br />When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind. <br />To be judged by you, <br />The soul of me hidden from you, <br />With its wound gangrened <br />By love for a wife who made the wound, <br />With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard, <br />Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand, <br />At any time, might have cured me of the typhus, <br />Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost. <br />And only to think that my soul could not react, <br />Like Byron's did, in song, in something noble, <br />But turned on itself like a tortured snake -- <br />Judge me this way, O world!<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harmon-whitney/
