The Frog

Who am I but the Frog - the Frog!         My realm is the dark bayou,     And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log         That the poison-vine clings to -     And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide         Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.     What am I but a King - a King! -         For the royal robes I wear -     A scepter, too, and a signet-ring,         As vassals and serfs declare:     And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not         In the wide world anywhere!     I can talk to the Night - the Night! -         Under her big black wing     She tells me the tale of the world outright,         And the secret of everything;     For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,         To the doom that death will bring.     The Storm swoops down, and he blows - and blows, -         While I drum on his swollen cheek,     And croak in his angered eye that glows         With the lurid lightning's streak;     While the rushes drown in the watery frown         That his bursting passions leak.     And I can see through the sky - the sky -         As clear as a piece of glass;     And I can tell you the how and why         Of the things that come to pass -     And whether the dead are there instead,         Or under the graveyard grass.     To your Sovereign lord all hail - all hail! -         To your Prince on his throne so grim!     Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail         Their heads in the dust to him;     And the wide world sing:    Long live the King,         And grace to his royal whim!