POEMS
If
that expression is a pride remaining,
Coriolanus, and Rome burning,
An aristocracy that is no more.
Scholars can keep their pity; from the ceiling
Watch blasted and superb inhabitants,
The wreck and justifying ruined stare.
Since graduating from its years of flesh
Th~name
has faded in the public mind,
Or doubled: which is this? The elder? Younger?
The statesman or the ·traveller?
Who first died or who edited his works,
The lonely brother due to remain longer
By a quarter-century than the first born
Of that illustrious and lost family?
The Jovers pass. Not one of them can know
Or care which Humboldt is immortalized.
If
they glance up, they glance in passing,
An idle outcome of that pacing
Which never stops, and proves them animal;
17
These thighs, breasts, pointed eyes are not their choosing,
But blind insignia by which are known
Season, excitement loosed upon this city.
Turning: the brilliant Avenue, red, green,
The laws of passage; marvellous hotels;
Beyond, the dark apartment where one summer
Night an insignificant dreamer,
Defeated occupant, will close his eyes
Mercifully on the expensive drama
Wherein he wasted so much skill, such faith,
And salvaged less than the intolerable statue.
John Berryman
