For three years, out of key with his time,<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain “the sublime” In the old sense. Wrong from the start— No, hardly, but seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date; Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn; Capaneus; trout for factitious bait; “Idmen gar toi panth, hos eni troie” Caught in the unstopped ear; Giving the rocks small lee-way The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year. His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe’s hair Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials. Unaffected by “the march of events,” He passed from men’s memory in l’an trentuniesme De son eage; the case presents No adjunct to the Muses’ diadem. |
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