THE lips so apt for deeds of passion The hair to stifle a man's breath The symmetry of form beneath An Irish mackintosh, the wild Defiant pupils of a child. The gods responsible for these Whatever else to blame one sees Were artists in their fashion. But left the signature unwritten Too early tired; 'twas strange to botch A masterpiece, but we who watch Horizons to redress the wrong See only Götterdämmerung. Not one of us, except in dreams, Can alter by a word it seems The story that is written, Which has no happy marriage-ending. A story, which we know, will fail To turn romantic fairy tale, For neither friendliness nor tears Have hands to push away the years, We can but turn our eyes away Before the last act of the play And its unlovely ending. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AWAKENING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SIMMENTHAL by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS INSTRUCTIONS, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN IN PARIS, FOR THE MOB IN ENGLAND by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK MORTAL JEALOUSY by PHILIP AYRES |