Poem by Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce

Polyphemus

Twas a sick young man with a face ungay
And an eye that was all alone;
And he shook his head in a hopeless way
As he sat on a roadside stone.

"O, ailing youth, what untoward fate
Has made the sun to set
On your mirth and eye?" "I'm constrained to state
I'm an ex-West Point cadet.

"'Twas at cannon-practice I got my hurt
And my present frame of mind;
For the gun went off with a double spurt—
Before it, and also behind!"

"How sad, how sad, that a fine young chap,
When studying how to kill,
Should meet with so terrible a mishap
Precluding eventual skill.

"Ah, woful to think that a weapon made
For mowing down the foe
Should commit so dreadful an escapade
As to turn about to mow!"

No more he heeded while I condoled:
He was wandering in his mind;
His lonely eye unconsidered rolled,
And his views he thus defined:

"'Twas O for a breach of the peace—'twas O
For an international brawl!
But a piece of the breech—ah no, ah no,
I didn't want that at all."

1. The Valley of Dry Bones
2. Matter for Gratitude
3. An Inscription
4. Convalescent
5. Safety-Clutch

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