Classic Poem

Why do you strut and crow,
And thus all gaudy go
Through squalor, with a show
That tempts derision?
Do you a livery use,
Or dress you up in hues
You were not free to choose
Of your own vision?

Colours of dawn and joy
That with delight destroy;
Your body all a Troy
To house desire,
Your mien as proud and brave
As his who fought to save
The fatal Queen who gave
But gifts of fire.

Strange that a small brown hen
Should charm you thus! For men
Great Beauty shines, as when
The Argive valleys
Bore her limbs for whom Greece
For ten years knew no peace,
Or our own Western seas
Bore Grace O'Malley's.

Their birth no happy star
Attended; rigid war
Beleaguered towns, and far
Deep fields were bloody!
Demure is not the mien
Of Beauty, by her een
The insolent pale Queen
Who makes me ruddy.

What, if I could appear
As you do, and strike fear!
But would she fail to sneer
Who will not heed a
Lover? nor cry — Absurd
You are, but as a bird â?¦!
Is it to be inferred
That I am Leda? —

Nor would it much avail
Were I to say — The male
In beauty doth prevail
Largely in Nature, —
For she would but retort,
— Is man the only sort
Whose females must pay court,
My beauteous creature? —

Alas, befeathered bull!
My love's too pitiful,
Too pensive, kind, less full
Than that of bird or
Beast, overcharged with fate
And more compassionate
Than yours you satiate
Half linked to murder.

The more we rise above
The beast or even the dove
Sorrow distempers love;
But yours is gladdest,
Soon gathered and soon spent,
A fierce arbitrament;
And you do not repent
O perfect Sadist!

To Semele none came,
None to each Sabine dame,
Not Hercules aflame —
Not dawn to heaven,
Came with as great affright
As you do burning bright,
Not — for the poor hen's plight —
To Kathleen Kevin;

Further she cannot go,
She falters and lies low
Brought down by love, a throe
That throws us all;
Soon to be scaled and hacked
And, like a city, sacked
With nothing left intact
Within the wall.

When you have persevered
As did the dawn you cheered
When darkness disappeared,
Give not the strife up
Till by the Passion Play
Of Death for Life's relay,
The old authentic way
You conjure life up!

O trample her in dust
So that you slake your lust!
Pull back her neck and thrust
To kill the tempter.
Your peace how dare she fret
With feet demurely set?
Give her another yet
And don't exempt her!

Take vengeance for the sting
In love's elusive wing,
With beak and talon cling
In full refulgence.
O work for all your worth
To bring your spirit to birth;
For this kind goeth forth
By self-indulgence!

For when your spurs were gained
Passion was unrestrained.
Your hues were not obtained
From dust and ashes.
You did of old deride
His spirit who denied.
You are but gratified
By Life's fierce flashes.

Now indignation foams!
The purple of your combs
Is purpler than the plum's
Or purple heather's.
What though it must endure!
Break Beauty! O secure
Some respite from the lure
Of all the feathers!