  Your face is stencilled with a pensiveness. Your face contains a minor lyric trapped By dainty ignorance, and tamely capped By hair as trimly lifeless as your dress. You suffer from the drooling praise of old And youthful men, who strive to win a blind And soothing admiration from your mind, And do not try to make your thoughts unfold. This comedy would fade into a host If it were not rewarded by the dead But unrelenting poet on your face. Your eyes are heavy with his reckless ghost: The trouble of his hands is on your head As you peer out into a clouded space. |
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