Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Gilded Snow

Middle-Aged: A Study in an Emotion

"'Tis but a vague, invarious delight. 
As gold that rains about some buried king. 

As the fine flakes, 
When tourists frolicking 
Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light 
Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes 
And start to inspect some further pyramid; 

As the fine dust, in the hid cell beneath 
Their transitory step and merriment, 
Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus 
Gains yet another crust 
Of useless riches for the occupant, 
So I, the fires that lit once dreams 
Now over and spent, 
Lie dead within four walls 
And so now love 
Rains down and so enriches some stiff case, 
And strews a mind with precious metaphors, 

And so the space 
Of my still consciousness 
Is full of gilded snow, 

The which, no cat has eyes enough 
To see the brightness of."

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