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The cold rewards trail in, when the man is blind
They glitter round his tomb (no bivouac):
The Rue Fortunée is the Rue de Balzac,
The Bach-Gesellschaft girdles the world; unsigned,
The treaty rages freeing him to wind
Mankind about an icy finger. Pack
His laurel in, startle him with gimcrack
recognition.—But O do not remind
Of the hours of morning this indifferent man
When alone in a summery cloud he sweat and knew
She, she would not come, she would not come, now
Or all the lime-slow day...  Your artisan
And men's, I tarry alike for fame and you,
Not hoping, tame, tapping my warm blank brow.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2008 10:05 AM | Viewed: 2158 times

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