POEMS
TWO PIECES AFTER SUETONIUS
I.
Apology for Domitian
He
was not bad, as emperors go, not really–
Not like Tiberius cruel, or poor Nero silly.
The trouble was only that omens said he would die,
So
what could he, mortal, do? Not worse, however, than you might,
or
1.
Suppose you knew from long back the very hour–
"Fear
the fifth hour"-and yet for all your power
Couldn't strike it out from the day, or the day from the year,
Then wouldn't you have to strike something?
If
you did, would you
think
it
so
queer?
Suppose you were proud of your beauty, but baldness set in,
Suppose your good leg were dwindling to spindly and thin,
Wouldn't you, like Domitian, try his "bed-wrestling" stunt
To prove immortality on what was propped to bear the imperial
brunt?
Suppose you had dreamed a gold hump sprouted out of your back,
And such prosperous burden oppressed you to breath-lack;
Suppose lightning scorched the sheets in your own bedroom;
Suppose from your statue storm yanked the name-plate, and chunked
it into
a
tomb--
Well,
it happened to him. Therefore there's little surprise
That
for hours he'd lock himself up to pull wings from
flies.
Fly
or man, what odds? He would wander his hall of moonstone,
Mirror-bright so he needn't look over his shoulder to know
if
he was
alone.
