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Musculatures and skulls. Later some throng
Before a colonnade, eagle on goose
Clampt in an empty sky, time's mild abuse
In cracks clear down the fresco print; among
The exaggeration of poses and the long
Dogged perspective, difficult to choose
The half-forgotten painter's lost excuse:
A vanished poet crowned by the Duke for song.

Yours crownless, though he keep four hundred years
To be mocked so, will not be sorry if
Some of you keeps, grey eyes, your dulcet lust...
So the old fiction fools us on, Hope steers
Rather us lickerish towards some heiroglyph
Than whelms us home, loinless and sleepy dust.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 12:22 PM | Viewed: 2493 times

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