Below, in that dark roar
Where rivets dance in the floor,
Will be no more broad noon;
There she will queen it soon
And rear up with a smile
At the royal state of affairs:
Quick-over
is
the style,
Men, and damn the stairs.
Frederick Bock
I CANNOT SHOUT THAT THE LYRIC LIE DECAYED
I cannot shout that the lyric lie decayed
On a latitude pursued by a spring moon,
Cannot silently shift my pen protesting
Against a frogthroated minstrel who
is
unwired
Without the skeleton of a harp. Listen.
The rain objects, and the wind is out of tune,
The bee hums flat and the wasp is hopping mad
At the fugue flowers allow. Lyric lie decay.
Today while I rested on my door I heard
An infant and an old man talking in verse.
This
is
spring when that may happen.
And it did. And still the lyric lie decayed.
I did not see a brand of fire spit flame
At the sea nor did I see a mountain dance.
But this was a dream heart hung with my anger:
And as they walked on through the mouth of a hill
I followed, as though called by a pied player.
I do not say that the lyric lie decayed.
John Fairfax
