THE FROG

Who am I but the Frog — the Frog!

My realm is the dark bayou,

And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log

That the poison-vine clings to —

And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide

Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

What am I but a King — a King!—

For the royal robes I wear —

A scepter, too, and a signet-ring,

As vassals and serfs declare:

And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not

In the wide world anywhere!

I can talk to the Night — the Night!—

Under her big black wing

She tells me the tale of the world outright,

And the secret of everything;

For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,

To the doom that death will bring.

The Storm swoops down, and he blows — and blows,—

While I drum on his swollen cheek,

And croak in his angered eye that glows

With the lurid lightning's streak;

While the rushes drown in the watery frown

That his bursting passions leak.

And I can see through the sky — the sky —

As clear as a piece of glass;

And I can tell you the how and why

Of the things that come to pass —

And whether the dead are there instead,

Or under the graveyard grass.

To your Sovereign lord all hail — all hail!—

To your Prince on his throne so grim!

Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail

Their heads in the dust to him;

And the wide world sing: Long live the King,

And grace to his royal whim!