The angels wept in their distress
To see young Harry playing chess
With Lucifer, the wily one,
Through moon’s eclipse and burning dawn;
Until all things he had were lost,
Not bartered back at any cost,
And all he would not have, likewise
Was watched by speculative eyes.
They mourned to see him in a trance
Relinquishing each grave advance,
Immersed in thoughts of many things
Beyond the pawns, the queens and kings:
In plaintive calls of whippoorwills
That dripped from out the farthest hills,
An old ballade, a witch’s name,
A wraith of smoke . . . but not the game.
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