By George Sterling

I said to the Muse:
"You are but a phantom!"
She only crowned herself with fire-thorn
And danced on five dew drops.

So small he was, so  busy,
And what a voice
To tell of his importance!
I said, having listened:
"Yes—a Ford with a fog-horn.

The Sphinx is stone,
But its ghost, last night,
Came to me and said:
"In Elysium
No one knows anything,
And Plato, there,
Is joyous as a puppy."

A human sheep,
His face and his life said, "Baa"
He essayed literature,
But the printed word said, "Ba-a-a!"
He turned to music,
But the strings of the violin,
Being of sheep-gut
Still cried, "Ba-a-a-a!"
Now, from a fashionable pulpit,
He moves feminine hearts to tears
With his delicate "Ba-a-a-a-a-a!"

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