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Friday, Mar 09, 2007 - 02:54 SGT
Posted By: Gilbert

- - -
Braggart In Matters Of Vice

So the sunset of the midden is over,
 its circles of light in hand;
A casualty of surds was I moreover,
 as a freedman, I must repent.
Some small powers led to thy downfall,
 mere quantities of size and speed,
Between Gordian constants, and variables,
 and twisted formulations replete.
Dark is the perfection that stains thy mind,
 dark is the heart that beats,
Timorously as it peeks fearfully
 at the standard fought for and unreached;
As sorrow was wont to yield despair,
 I heard the voice of my reason say,
Shame on thee who would bide the years,
 broken thus by fault of a day.
Whyfore weep thee, whyfore mourn?
 For what, that poor character of a grade?
Whyfore compose liturgies for that
 which yet lives, dying but undead?
Thy strength was never hidden in numbers,
 those deathless digits that lie,
But joy and delight in lifelong sentences,
 for although these may die;
They were thy song and laughter,
 thy adored and unmarred chatter;
Lovingly, they held thy long,
 unlike that matter which would not matter.
Weary thy are of thy counting,
 scaling long steps to some answer,
To a question thy never asked but forced to,
 like a poor and unthirsty dowser;
Scrabbling amongst wellworn rocks,
 granite hewed from giants that were,
Prospecting mere dust from mighty shoulders -
 how hard it is, to hold that dear.

 (with apologies to Algernon Swinburne)



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