J. E. Scruggs

HE sits all day in a cemetery tree,

The damp of sinking graves upon his breath;

Brooding the little ways of life and death,

Chuckling at thought of immortality.

Long rows of tombstones make his library,

Rare tomes of wit—“dry wit,” he seems to say.

He cons them till night comes, then flies away

Into the dark, to call for you or me.

Or so, when as a boy I heard his cry

Grate the harp-strings of night, I thought it was;

A man, I cross myself, a boy still—half:

As on that night I saw a dear friend die,

And long sat brooding on the patient stars,

And seemed to hear, far off, his mocking laugh!