At the time
of their arrival he had just finished scribbling some verses hot
from his heart. Jeff read them aloud, in spite of the poet's
modest insistence that they were only a first draft.
"This is a story that two may tell,
I am the one, the other's in hell;
A story of passionate amorous fire,
With the glamor of love to attune the lyre.
She traveled the road at breakneck speed,
I opened the gates and saddled the steed;
"Ride free!" I cried as we dashed along.
Her sweet voice echoed a mocking song."
"'Fraid it doesn't always scan. They seldom do," apologized the
author of the verses.
Jeff rapped for order. "The sense of the meeting is that the
blushing poet will please not interrupt."
"Nights of the wildest revel and mirth,
Days of sorrow, remorse, and dearth,
A heaven of love and a hell of regret--
But there's always the woman to pay my debt.
'Sin,' says the preacher, 'shall be washed free,
The blood of the Lamb was shed for thee.'
Smugly I pass the sacred wine,
The woman in hell pays toll for mine.
'I am a pillar of Church and State,
She but the broken sport of Fate;
This is a story that two may tell,
I am the one, the other's in hell.
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