At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, “You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!”
“I do not want to fly,” said he, “I only want to squirm!” And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: “I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!”
O yesterday of unknown lack, To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black; The last I saw was this,— The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.
Louise Imogen Guiney was born at Boston, Massachusetts, in 1861. Although she attended Elmhurst Academy in Providence, most of her studying was with private tutors. In 1901 she went to England, where she lived until her death.
Traditional in form and feeling, Miss Guiney’s work has a distinctly personal vigor; even her earliest collection, _The White Sail and Other Poems_ (1887), is not without individuality. Her two most characteristic volumes are _A Roadside Harp_ (1893) and _Patrins_ (1897). A more recent publication, _Happy Ending_, appeared in 1909.
Miss Guiney died at Chirping-Camden, England, November 3, 1920.
_I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing._
Let cowards and laggards fall back! But alert to the saddle Weatherworn and abreast, go men of our galloping legion, With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him.
The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us: What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.
Thought’s self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb, And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sunbeam: Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing.
A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle, A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty; We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers.
_I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing._
We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm-wind; We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil. Thou leadest, O God! All’s well with Thy troopers that follow.
