An Elegy for A.S.

You are not an aged man.

You are not a paltry thing.

You are not a tattered coat upon a stick.

Your soul clapped and sang

And louder sang

for every flaw in your mortal dress.

Once out of nature you will never take

your bodily form from any natural thing.

But such a thing as Grecian goldsmith’s make

Of hammered gold and gold enameling.

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Tags: Elegy