Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The MasseurJoseph Warren Beach
I
The dim light overhead
Reveals a ghostly figure
Bent down above my bed;
A figure dim and priestly,
Soft-footed and discreet,
With sacramental beard and eyes
Above his winding sheet.
And shaded from the light,
But something strange and eerie
Yet glitters to my sight.
His voice is soft and toneless,
With a hint of faraway
Uncanny resonances heard
Beyond our night and day.
That follow every curve,
Wake quivers of sensation
In each remotest nerve.
And ever, as he passes
His palms along my skin,
He goes on speaking grave and still
Of Satan and of sin.
And out of John the seer,
He proves the Second Coming
And how it draweth near.
He strips the scarlet woman
And lays the dragon bare,
And shows me Armageddon red
About us everywhere.
His voice grows faint and fainter.
His face I cannot see.
A flush of warmth and drowsiness
Flows up and covers me.
My waking soul goes under
In gradual eclipse …
I sleep, and dream of judgment day,
And dread Apocalypse.