Classic Poem

Through all the moving thoroughfares
And in the contending marts of trade;
Within the babbling magazines and
Even as I rode the surcharged vehicles
Which rolled at dizzy onwardness
Without the impulse of the harnessed steed;
During the waking hours, bewhiles
I battled with the reckless wind
And closed my eyes against the tossing clouds
Of vitrified disturbance, soot, dust,
Tattered papyrus and all the medleyed rubbish
Of the city's ways;
All this time, as I again declare,
And likewise in the night, when I,
In company with highty-ti revelers,
Did run with bunches of anticipation
Toward the gleaming letters far above
The portals of Thespis' temple;
And later yet, when all we creatures of the night
Did seek our warm retreats
To feast on rabbits, explosive salads
And the clammy crabmeat of commerce;
All during this long while, as I do now
Most solemnly and fearfully asseverate,
There came to my ear, with never pause,
A soft and hollow rattle.
At times, methought, 'twas like the
Spilling of many dead men's bones
In the adjoining vault. Again,
It seemed more like the tapping '
Of distant castanets — a dream
Of dark-eyed Spanish women, soiled and superb,
Who moved in jerky measures while
The yellow dust rose to obscure
The fierce colors. But, truth to tell,
'Twas neither. Clickety-click, clickety-click,
I heard it yet again, and I asked:
' Is this some dread distemper of the brain,
Some fungus growth in my imaginings?
Do I alone of mortal men distinguish
This smothered clatter, hidden, elusive ?'
When I did full relate my fears
To the good y Esculapius, he said:
' Fear not; 'twas actual sound you heard,
And you are not, as you might well suppose,
Entirely separated from your trolley.'
Continuing, then, with kindly air, he told:
' The tiny rattling sounds which do attend
You and all others in this wintry clime,
Are the concussions of the quinine pellet
Tossing within its pasteboard cage;
For know you well that all men,
Likewise the women and the tender young,
The aged and infirm no more than those
Who claim youth's lusty strength,
The plain and eke the fair,
The rich and humble, frugal and
Improvident, all, all, carry concealed
The potent ammunition of the season;
And as they move upon their daily
Occupations, you hear from underneath
Their woolen garments, toward the Jaeger depths,
Muffled and yet distinct, and always rhythmical,
' Clickety-click, clickety-click, clickety-click,'
The tattoo of the quinine pellet.
Join all the others — take my solemn tip,
Prepare to meet thine enemy, the grip.'