Poem 69

70 of 73 · 1 min of reading

THE shepherd's brow fronting forked lightning, owns

The horror and the havoc and the glory

Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven--a story

Of just, majestical, and giant groans.

But man--we, scaffold of score brittle bones;

Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary

Age gasp; whose breath is our memento mori--

What bass is our viol for tragic tones?

He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame;

And, blazoned in however bold the name,

Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy.

And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame,

That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored:

tame

My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy.

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End of part 70 of 73