How shall I sing, western&dry&thin, You who for celebration should cause flow The sensual fanfare of D'Annunzio, Mozart's mischievous joy, the amaranthine Mild quirks of Marvell, Villon sharp as tin Solid as sword-death when the man blinks slow And accordions into the form he'll know Forever—voices can nearly make me sin With envy, so they sound. You they saw not, Natheless, alas, unto this epigone Descends the dread labour, the Olympic hour— When for the garden and the tape of what We trust, one runs until lung into bone Hardens, runs harder then... lucky, a flower. Submitted by Holt
Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 2 Mar 2021 8:37 AM | Viewed: 3681 times
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