Classic Poem

Critic, that hoary Gull, in air
Whistles, whistles shrilly:
Climbing Youth, beware
Murder and mockery!

That wheeling, hoary gull
Bats on his thin skull,
Claws at his steady eyes,
Whinnies and cries:
Youth flings the gibe back.
Hundreds of wings clack,
Bright eyes encircle, search
For foothold's fatal lurch.
" See now he shifts his grip:
" Loosen each finger-tip!
" Whew, brothers, shall he slip? "
Crack-tendoned, answers Youth:
" I seek for Eggs of Truth. "

Claws clutch his hair,
Beaks prick his eyes —
" Whistle, Despair, Despair!
" With ancient quills prise
" Every hand's — foot's — hold,
" Wedged in the rock's fold!
" Batter and scream, bewilder
" This impious babel-buil ... whew!
" Down he is rocketing falling, twisting. "

For days and nights
Time's curly breakers
Winnow him, wash him.

What is that stirs?
What wing from the heights
Slants to that murdered limb?
Gull's peering eye hath spotted
Something the sea has rotted.
Secretly to the feast
Dives big gull, less, and least;
For Age never dies:
Age shall pick out his eyes,
Taste them with critick zest,
— Age knows the Best!
— Age shall build his lair
Out of his hair:
Gulp his small splintered bones
To his gizzard, for stones:
Feed on his words
All his young woolly birds.
Say not he died in vain!
All that he cried in pain
Ear-cocked Age hearkens to
Someday. Declares it true
Someday.

What though he fell? The jest
Feathers old Critic's nest.