Nothing can I recall, O Alma Mater, of thee Save a crumbling ivied wall And a world of obliquity. Nothing but shades discreet, Politic, glib of tongue, Pirouetting on tip-toe feet To where the Mass is sung: -- The Mass, or whatever most In Evangelic places Prefers the Holy Ghost To flamboyant grimaces: -- Nothing: and yet I lie! Across my memory flame, Like blood-drops on ivory, The syllables of a name. Like a red wound in the breast Of a god, like a maiden's cry For her ravished virginity, Like a torch that burneth a city, Comes to me over the years, A wraith of splendour and tears. Christopher Marlowe -- shrive him, God! -- Walked and blasphemed on Corpus sod. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 2. LOS CIGARILLOS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SURFACES AND MASKS; 3 by CLARENCE MAJOR THE ARABIAN SHAWL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JONAS KEENE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |