George Ade Poems
The Poet Of The New School Speaks
I'm great and
I know it.
People can't understand me.
I can't understand myself.
I don't want to.
If I did understand myself
I wouldn't be great.
'The moon reels and the
Phantom passes twice and thrice
The death damp hand
Across my brow.
O what of joy?
O - what of grief?
Darkness—blank — a sob in the throat.
O phantom, phantom, phantom!'
Pretty good, eh?
Especially if it has
Some little, smudgy, inky
Pictures strung along the edges.
I used to write about
Men and ...
Through all the moving thoroughfares
And in the contending marts of trade;
Within the babbling magazines and
Even as I rode the surcharged vehicles
Which rolled at dizzy onwardness
Without the impulse of the harnessed steed;
During the waking hours, bewhiles
I battled with the reckless wind
And closed my eyes against the tossing clouds