When Joy-Gods Frown Poem by James Walter Orr

The old house that stands on the top of the hill
In the shade of that sheltering oak,
Is mum with the silence; entombed by the years
That have passed since the chandeliers spoke
With their tinkle of crystal reflecting the sound
Of the swishing of dancers a swinging around
Till the laughter of dancers, the joy-gods awoke,
To bask in the glory the sound did invoke
With the rapture, the rhythm, the pound.

The chimney once stood, proudly pointing the sky.
The shingles were painted bright green.
The sides were a splendor, with coating of white:
Near the pickets the fountains were seen,
With their pulsing of crystal enhancing the view
Where the blooming magnolias and touch-me-nots grew
Round the statue, Atlanta, the joy-goddess queen,
Who blessed with her beauty her garden demesne
As the rosebuds prepared their debut.

The windows are shuttered; the proud garden paths
Are lying in shame in the weeds.
The rosebeds are vanquished by thistle and thorn,
In the atmosphere vacancy breeds.
The chimney’s a-teeter and leans toward the ground,
Where the rusting tin cans and the rubbish abound,
‘Midst the ruins of fountains: forlornly they stand,
Where the snaggle-toothed pickets still fence in the land,
Where the queen of the joy-gods has frowned.