Acadiensis/Volume 2/Number 2/The Maniac
The Maniac.
Cold as the nether deeps of polar sea,And storm-swept as the peak that scrapes the sky,His soul glares outward with a wordless cry;His hands, through gratings, grasp immensity!Matted and worn and pale—with whelming gleeHe screams to phantoms sweeping wildly by;Phantoms, wolf-eyed—intent to kill or die,Or crush the Universe to anarchy!
A piping thrush begins his simple lay,And, straightway, gibing apes with clasped handsDance to his music on far, golden sandsWhere shines the summer sun through endless day!A chime—from green fields, fragrant, undefiled,Lo! through his grating, smiles a little child!Charles Campbell.