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!
