It is not often Sunday draws
Me to that house where good men come;
Yet worship I, and the same cause
Which sends them there keeps me at home.
But on one holy Christmas morn
I took an unaccustomed road
To church, to hear how Christ was born,
And how to walk the path He showed.
I cheerful said, always some good
Falls in our way, however vext;
Though scarce a worshipper, I would,
If not a sermon, find a text.
O'er snow new-fallen pure and fine
I walked the virgin world alone;
But soon a tiny trail crossed mine,
And near, a field-mouse dead as stone.
Clumsy with snow his little feet
Had borne him just across the way
In search of home, or else to meet
And feast with friend that Christmas-day.
There in an inch or two of snow
I found him in the morning sun;
His limbs were stiff, his head was low,
His work, whate'er it was, was done.
He held no backward-going pace
But in his last endeavor died;
'T is well with thee, I tried to trace
On the blank tablet by his side.
Thence onward slow my steps I paced
Beside the drooping evergreen,
Or where the bare oak interlaced
The sky that on it seemed to lean.
These splendors passed, at length I near
The church steps with the goats and sheep;
A goodly flock! prepared to hear
The tale that eighteen centuries weep.
The preacher droned and canted well;
The men dozed off, the women stared;
Hurtled the dread words heaven and hell,
But no one heard and no one cared.
I not asleep, nor quite awake.
Numbered the nothings of the house,
Revolving which my text to make,
The living priest or that dead mouse.
But ere the sermon had its close
And picked each dry bone of the feast,
The words reversed themselves and rose
The living mouse, the phantom priest.
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Comments
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Yemassee, the truth you see
in what took place in Albee's mind
as he pondered which to celebrate,
the dry preacher or the mouse who lived
but now so stiff and dead
dying in his last endeavor.
And of course, as you point out,
the mouse won out in Albee's mind
and made it to his text!
M-C
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From guest Hugh Wyles (contact)
In my 5-watt opinion, this is a well-thought and well-written poem to which I am grateful for Sir Yemassee's guidance. I have not previously herd of Albee or read any of his works but if this is an example of the depth of his thinking, I shall search for more. Thankyou, Yem. -
Probably my favorite poem that I've read by Albee. I'm not sure he meant it as I interpret it, but I see that break between the Word and Him. In the mouse (and his walk) the speaker is able to see the proof of God (and nature of our lives) better than from the dry, trite words that had lost their effect on the churchgoers. The last line, I like that, the speaker seems to put the Word and God back in the same sentence, make it come alive, and for him, the message of the dead mouse is greater than that of the living priest. Though I'm possibly applying too much of my own opinions here.
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