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We are men of a world circumbound by wire
Our minds sift the ashes of time half forgotten
Small egos burn slowly on the fire
Unmourned, unwanted putrefied and rotten
Purblind and glazed we plumb the depth of things;
And as clouds through a twisted window pane
The forms swirl and vanish, so nothing clings;
We seek good, truth, beauty, an odd refrain
….
Hard as a muted cough, the fact remains
Bitter as the silence it creates
No fact the heart feels, the mind disdains.
Philosophers like phantasies, the intellect elates
But with leaden hours shines, slink away
So it revolves — how long the day.
“Platonic” (July ’44)
Nocturnes moonlight
Paul Verlaine
A darkened room
A silver counterpane
Illusions tomb
