DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944 |

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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944

But afterwards she wanted to get home to tell her father that he was forgiven."
"And did she ever tell him, if she never got there?"
"The visitations ceased," the professor said pedantically.
"And you found out all this from your researches?"
"Yes," in a toneless voice.
The fire had almost died down. Now it flared up brightly, and for a moment Martin could see the professor's face. He sat in shocked silence. He should have realized it before. There was no other way a man could know so much about it. Through the  darkness, he could half see a smile on the old man's lips now. He was remembering that, after all, his daughter had forgiven him.
"It's a fair enough story," the doctor said at last. "But I still can't see it as a picture."
**********************************************
DECADENCE
When the Great are fallen,
And the Mighty is strewn in weeds,
And nothing but remnants reach
In twisted, sodden grotesueness
Towards a slate-grey sky...
It is then I like to sit,
Lax and weary, on a stone
And watch the mists slip by.
It it then I like to listen.
Perhaps to the strains
Of a mighty symphony of another day.
Or mayhap idly peruse some fragment
Of philosophy
Written when the lights were on
And things worked.
Yes! There is something about decadence!
The ebbing, receding pulse of a culture,
With the number survivors grubbing in the rubble
Of the once-great.
There is something about Decadence.
With life sluggish about Decadence.
With life sluggish and pointless,
Lighted by a flickering candle here,
By a spot of intelligence there.
But mostly solence and grey mists
And toppled walls and vacant windows,
And the quiet long grass pushing up in the roads.
Sometimes, sitting on my stone, I think
All that is past was done that I
Might sit on my stone in the mists
To regard the ebb-tide placid and serene.
To survey the decay and enjoy it.
But soon, I fear, the fools will start anew
To try turning on the lights and starting the machines
And build again and clear away the grass,
So that I shall have to go again
With the eternally shifting mists.
But we shall return another day,
And I shall sit on my stone
And regard the sweet, acattered remains
Of another Decadence.

Saving...

But afterwards she wanted to get home to tell her father that he was forgiven." "And did she ever tell him, if she never got there?" "The visitations ceased," the professor said pedantically. "And you found out all this from your researches?" "Yes," in a toneless voice. The fire had almost died down. Now it flared up brightly, and for a moment Martin could see the professor's face. He sat in shocked silence. He should have realized it before. There was no other way a man could know so much about it. Through the darkness, he could half see a smile on the old man's lips now. He was remembering that, after all, his daughter had forgiven him. "It's a fair enough story," the doctor said at last. "But I still can't see it as a picture." ********************************************** DECADENCE When the Great are fallen, And the Mighty is strewn in weeds, And nothing but remnants reach In twisted, sodden grotesueness Towards a slate-grey sky... It is then I like to sit, Lax and weary, on a stone And watch the mists slip by. It it then I like to listen. Perhaps to the strains Of a mighty symphony of another day. Or mayhap idly peruse some fragment Of philosophy Written when the lights were on And things worked. Yes! There is something about decadence! The ebbing, receding pulse of a culture, With the number survivors grubbing in the rubble Of the once-great. There is something about Decadence. With life sluggish about Decadence. With life sluggish and pointless, Lighted by a flickering candle here, By a spot of intelligence there. But mostly solence and grey mists And toppled walls and vacant windows, And the quiet long grass pushing up in the roads. Sometimes, sitting on my stone, I think All that is past was done that I Might sit on my stone in the mists To regard the ebb-tide placid and serene. To survey the decay and enjoy it. But soon, I fear, the fools will start anew To try turning on the lights and starting the machines And build again and clear away the grass, So that I shall have to go again With the eternally shifting mists. But we shall return another day, And I shall sit on my stone And regard the sweet, acattered remains Of another Decadence.