In the scarce hours you permit, or between laced fingers (which is rarer now than ever) is the fool that carried your name upon silver tongue over the gate, up the back way, trembling at the chamber door, or in the thoroughfare.
Is a little boy rend like your proud tattered gown. Is a butchers hand rend you, though lean as you are.
That boy is still here, clumsy limb and letter. He doesn't know his place.