He knew for all our falls from paradises
We have ever-further to fall;
How one life suffices and MORE than suffices
And never suffices at all.
A sickly and precocious melancholic,
His lyric heart encaged in crooked bones,
He learned the laughing little darlings on a frolic
Were mothers of the grim and toothless crones.
He saw the mourning should begin at matin,
The shattered ruins among the tiller's clods,
The dust he swept from Hebrew, Greek and Latin,
To the last retreating echoes of the gods.
This Masque was briefly his for the unmasking
And the bitter balm of knowing—
He rained on the parade by asking
Where the parade is going.