The Dancing Bear

FAR over Elf-land poets stretch their sway,
And win their dearest crowns beyond the goal
Of their own conscious purpose; they control
With gossamer threads wide-flown our fancy’s play,
And so our action. On my walk to-day
A wallowing bear begged clumsily his toll,
When straight a vision rose of Atta Troll,
And scenes ideal witched mine eyes away.
“ Merci, Mossieu ! ” the astonished bear-ward cried
, Grateful for thrice his hope to me, the slave
Of partial memory, seeing at his side
A bear immortal; the glad dole I gave
Was none of mine; poor Heine o’er the wide
Atlantic welter reached it from his grave.