  The widely bruised, shy beauty of a brain That renders dogmas bashful with its breath Will raise its last, wan offering to death— A poise of gossamer that takes the rain Of darkness, with an unexpectant pride. Your thoughts are old and yet too young for life Whose ponderous sneer preserves their curling strife. They wait for heavy spear-points, side by side. You are a wilted pilgrim on a road Where hills and rubbish-pits receive alike The skeptical remonstrance of your pace. You pass through towns and raise your thoughtful load To shield your loves against the words that strike The sheer, elastic trouble of your face. |
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