And must I stoop, churn and obscure
To dote on pulchritude so pure?
May I not forgo hours of sleep
And lame ‘tween grasses ever keep
Your vague, arresting countenance,
My eye unbound from sustenance?
May I not chance all ‘knowledge’ sound?
Is it that Heaven is no ground?
Shan’t hearts dilapidated write
A thing so opulent as might
An august man, whose name’s renowned?
They know not of all I’ve found.
Your brow once mapped a lavish satin,
I long to taste that blaze of Latin!
To have the watchmen of the night
Dash my temple with delight;
A momentary treasured space
For us, the yonder, and the grace.
And as the shards of anguish lie
Stunned and buried in your sky,
My callow eye remains as glazed-
But were its window to be grazed
By the honest, spartan gleam
Of ancient lights - I’d be redeemed.
Now, know not I of music cherished,
Languages nor tales long perished,
Know not I of piety,
Nor of what, or whence are we;
But all assured wept Niobe -
Here, twinkle bones and necks and cheeks
Like sentinels ‘twixt damning seas;
All heavy with an empty glare,
For none did once their mind make spare -
But sense they did to you compare.
an old one I wrote when I thought I was Edgar Allan Poe