Spring 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 2 Poetry |

At the Grave of Robert Ingersoll

I stand upon the lavish August grass Uncut about the grave of one who flew At Church, calling it a chain, and crass Christians locked and barred by keys to the true, Nor would he lounge in heaven lest there pass One soul to timeless torture: pale now through The weeds an unavenged grey ghost appears, The glory of his nineteen hundred years. Weary of nail theology, debate About the stricter Father and soft Son, I doted on his doctrine once and ate His reason in a coat of sugar spun, The heretic wine of love by the homely gate: Truth was not faith but hope; the throb of One Would flutter me with spirited defiance, Though I found out his favorite faith was science. Negative Voltaire no way would heel, Yet had an agnostic dogma that could be About a god of bronze or burnished steel, So hard he hammered at its eternity, As if to fashion for Heaven's gate, where kneel All men and angels high, his own gold key, And he who knocked the pulpit's shattering rod Seemed

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Nocturne

By Edgar Bogardus

I stand upon the lavish August grass Uncut about the grave of one who flew At Church, calling it a chain, and crass Christians locked and barred by keys to […]

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