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Marble nor monuments whereof then we spoke
We speak of more; spasmodic as the wasp
About my windowpane, our short songs rasp—
Not those alone before their singers choke—
Our sweetest; none hopes now with one smart stroke
Or whittling years to crack away the hasp
Across the tickling future; all our grasp
Cannot beyond the butt secure its smoke.

A Renaissance fashion, not to be recalled.
We dinch 'eternal numbers' and go out.
We understand exactly what we are.
...Do we? Argent I craft you as the star
Of flower-shut evening: who stays on to doubt
I sang true? ganger with trobador and scald!


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 5 Sep 2008 12:04 PM | Viewed: 1671 times

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