When Echus arrived at the library, a waiting henchman handed him a piece of paper that appeared to have been ripped from a student's spiral notebook. "What's this?" Echus demanded loudly. Before the henchman could respond, a chorus of angry librarians shushed him vigoriously. "We thought we saw the Elvis guy in the stacks earlier, and though we missed him, we think he may have dropped this," whispered the henchman. "Can you make any sense of it?"
Genre - Ode (with apologies to John Keats)
Hmmmm, thought Echus. This guy has really gone off the deep end.ODE TO MARA
THOU still unravish'd bride, promised of me,
Thou foster-child of Astraea and Veive,
Sylvan sentinel, chaste Melpomene,
Font of wisdom deeper than sages weave:
Those lackwit henchmen flee thy lovely face
Barren demons, decrepit imps of crime,
Foul offspring of dark Brotherhood’s dank vats.
Their fated doom in Hades comes apace,
Dispatch’d before thy countenance sublime,
Leaving a sinking ship bereft of rats.
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; your treasured lyrics live on
In my memory, the song of glad bird,
Greeting spring in gay ditties without tone:
We youths, beneath the trees, we shall not leave
Our song, nor ever will those trees be bare;
Bold Lover! In our souls can we yet kiss,
An ethereal union only—grieve
Not, our love cannot fade, postponed bliss,
Forever wilt be ours, waiting to share!
Ah, happy, happy shelves! that cannot shed
Your tomes, nor ever bid old books adieu;
And dictionary ever unwearied,
Teaching your pupils unknown terms anew;
Share our tale of eternal happy love!
Forever new, always to be enjoy'd,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All fleshed human passion far above,
That leaves a reader sorrowful and cloy'd,
With burning forehead, and a panting tongue.
Who are these coming to their sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou those heifers lowing at the skies,
And all their silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little nest of flowing rancid gore,
Under Mephistopheles’ citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this fateful morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can ne'er return.
Our triumph no evil ones can impede,
Not brawny men nor dark wraiths overwrought
With undead spirits, pledged to Moglin’s creed;
Thou, silent books! dost tease us out of thought
As doth a muse: Cold Periodical!
When heartless death these villains lays to waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of lovers’ woe
As one, yet forever parted. I say'st,
'Beauty I know, truth and beauty,—‘tis all
I want on earth, yet it I’ll never know.'
Just then he noticed . . . .
