The Old Men
Well, if I might this morning have risen and found
All the old men, the crafty, secure and wise,
Dead in a bloody dust or windily drowned
And the hard seas scraping the lids of their rigid eyes!
I am sick of their gentle whips and sick to the soul
Of their noble guile and exalted avarice.
I have seen their restless hands and prefer on the whole
The fidgeting twitch of a beggar scratching his lice.
All the old men, the crafty, secure and wise,
Dead in a bloody dust or windily drowned
And the hard seas scraping the lids of their rigid eyes!
I am sick of their gentle whips and sick to the soul
Of their noble guile and exalted avarice.
I have seen their restless hands and prefer on the whole
The fidgeting twitch of a beggar scratching his lice.
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