The Noon Of Night

The fictive tear he holds in reverence, And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek; It is a dim dominion he must seek, To gain some raiment for his impotence. Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings, And barren smiles are trained for tragedy; He ties up parcels of mock gaiety, And labels them with many worshippings.

Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste At scattered sources of lost loveliness, With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats. He knows his gems are turned to glassy paste-- But he thanks God aloof from all distress, For he knows sewers run beneath the city streets.