Zilpha Marsh

AT four o'clock in late October

I sat alone in the country school-house

Back from the road, mid stricken fields,

And an eddy of wind blew leaves on the pane,

And crooned in the flue of the cannon-stove,

With its open door blurring the shadows

With the spectral glow of a dying fire.

In an idle mood I was running the planchette —

All at once my wrist grew limp,

And my hand moved rapidly over the board,

‘ Till the name of “Charles Guiteau” was spelled,

Who threatened to materialize before me.

I rose and fled from the room bare-headed

Into the dusk, afraid of my gift.

And after that the spirits swarmed —

Chaucer, Caesar, Poe and Marlowe,

Cleopatra and Mrs. Surratt —

Wherever I went, with messages,—

Mere trifling twaddle, Spoon River agreed.

You talk nonsense to children, do n't you?

And suppose I see what you never saw

And never heard of and have no word for,

I must talk nonsense when you ask me

What it is I see!