A Dark CareerCall it misfortune, crime, or whatYou will—his presence was a blotWhere all was bright and fair—A blot that told its darksome taleAnd left its mark a blighting trailBehind him everywhere.***He stood by the Atlantic’s shore,And crossed the azure main,And even the sea, so blue before,About his wake grew dark and boreThe semblance of a stain.On English soil he scarcely moreThan paused his breath to gain;But on that fair historic shoreThere seemed to gather, as before,A darkness in his train.Through sunny France, across the lineTo Germany, and up the RhineTo Switzerland he came;Then o’er the snowy Alpine height,To leave a stain as black as nightOn Italy’s fair name.From Italy he crossed the blue,And hurried on as if he knewHis journey’s end he neared.On Darkest Africa he threwA shade of even darker hue,Till in the sands of TimbuctooHis record disappeared.***Only an inkstand’s overflow,O Bumblebee! remains to showThe source of your mishap;But though you’ve flown my ken beyond,The foot-notes of yourtour du mondeStill decorate my map.
Call it misfortune, crime, or whatYou will—his presence was a blotWhere all was bright and fair—A blot that told its darksome taleAnd left its mark a blighting trailBehind him everywhere.***
Call it misfortune, crime, or whatYou will—his presence was a blotWhere all was bright and fair—A blot that told its darksome taleAnd left its mark a blighting trailBehind him everywhere.***
He stood by the Atlantic’s shore,And crossed the azure main,And even the sea, so blue before,About his wake grew dark and boreThe semblance of a stain.On English soil he scarcely moreThan paused his breath to gain;But on that fair historic shoreThere seemed to gather, as before,A darkness in his train.Through sunny France, across the lineTo Germany, and up the RhineTo Switzerland he came;Then o’er the snowy Alpine height,To leave a stain as black as nightOn Italy’s fair name.From Italy he crossed the blue,And hurried on as if he knewHis journey’s end he neared.On Darkest Africa he threwA shade of even darker hue,Till in the sands of TimbuctooHis record disappeared.***
He stood by the Atlantic’s shore,And crossed the azure main,And even the sea, so blue before,About his wake grew dark and boreThe semblance of a stain.
On English soil he scarcely moreThan paused his breath to gain;But on that fair historic shoreThere seemed to gather, as before,A darkness in his train.
Through sunny France, across the lineTo Germany, and up the RhineTo Switzerland he came;Then o’er the snowy Alpine height,To leave a stain as black as nightOn Italy’s fair name.
From Italy he crossed the blue,And hurried on as if he knewHis journey’s end he neared.On Darkest Africa he threwA shade of even darker hue,Till in the sands of TimbuctooHis record disappeared.***
Only an inkstand’s overflow,O Bumblebee! remains to showThe source of your mishap;But though you’ve flown my ken beyond,The foot-notes of yourtour du mondeStill decorate my map.
Only an inkstand’s overflow,O Bumblebee! remains to showThe source of your mishap;But though you’ve flown my ken beyond,The foot-notes of yourtour du mondeStill decorate my map.