Classic Poem

The shepherd's brow, fronting forked lightning, owns┬░
The horror and the havoc and the glory
Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven — a story┬░
Of just, majestical, and giant groans.
But man — we, scaffold of score brittle bones;
Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary
Age gasp; whose breath is our memento mori —
What bass is our viol for tragic tones?┬░
He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame;
And, blazoned in however bold the name,
Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy.┬░
And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame,
That . . . in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tame┬░
My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy.