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Dés Cento

March 29, 2014

Small, busy flames play through the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men.
Whilom there was dwelling in my country once on a time
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
In robes of Tyrian blue with your bitter, twisted lies:
O Captain! My Captain! But yesterday a King!
Apollo’s wrath to man the dreadful spring.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
For excellent intention (to me a painted paroquet).
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after.
It’s not my intention to judge, criticize, or offend;
To ask if there is some mistake when all men doubt you.
Brothers & sons of America, till our faces pale and yellow
The sad old earth must borrow its mirth and be one traveler.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Nemesis will have her dues.


From → Rants

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