It was a kind and northern face That mingled in such exile guise The everlasting eyes of Pierrot And, of Gargantua, the laughter. His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances -- Delicate riders of the storm. The slant moon on the slanting hill Once moved us toward presentiments Of what the dead keep, living still, And such assessments of the soul As, perched in the crematory lobby, The insistent clock commented on, Touching as well upon our praise Of glories proper to the time. Still, having in mind gold hair, I cannot see that broken brow And miss the dry sound of bees Stretching across a lucid space. Scatter these well meant idioms Into the smoky spring that fills The suburbs, where they will be lost. They are no trophies of the sun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALLAD OF LOVELY LADYES OF LONG AGOE by FRANCOIS VILLON THE WHITE KNIGHT'S SONG by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON DITTY IN IMITATION OF THE SPANISH: ENTRE TANTO QUE L'AVRIL by EDWARD HERBERT WINTER SONG by LUDWIG HENRICH CHRISTOPH HOLTY |