Poetry Archives

“Eighteen hundred and twelve,” in largest print;
And next to it, “April the twenty-first.”
The letters smeared and jumbled, but by dint
Of straining every nerve to meet the worst,
He read it, and into his pounding brain
Tumbled a horror.  Like a roaring sea
Foreboding shipwreck, came the message plain:
“This is two years ago!  What of Christine?”
He fled the cellar, in his agony
Running to outstrip Fate, and save his holy shrine.