The Frog

Who am I but the Frog--the Frog! My realm is the dark bayou, And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log That the poison-vine clings to-- And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide Where the ghost of the moon looks blue. What am I but a King--a King!-- For the royal robes I wear-- A scepter, too, and a signet-ring, As vassals and serfs declare: And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not In the wide world anywhere! I can talk to the Night--the Night!-- Under her big black wing She tells me the tale of the world outright, And the secret of everything; For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, To the doom that death will bring. The Storm swoops down, and he blows--and blows,-- While I drum on his swollen cheek, And croak in his angered eye that glows With the lurid lightning's streak; While the rushes drown in the watery frown That his bursting passions leak. And I can see through the sky--the sky-- As clear as a piece of glass; And I can tell you the how and why Of the things that come to pass-- And whether the dead are there instead, Or under the graveyard grass. To your Sovereign lord all hail--all hail!-- To your Prince on his throne so grim! Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail Their heads in the dust to him; And the wide world sing: Long live the King, And grace to his royal whim!