Classic Poem

Mettle of rust doth ne'er combine
To man of figure, brain and form,
But venom's strength can here
Forswear the tile that reasons shorn.
O brutal, blind, thou art uncursed
As the weeds that bend from decay —
Canst thou not tear? O stable aid,
That sense doth nigh rejoice
Of the roots that thou hast, grey
From immortality, O ruler of Celt —
Thou hast torn breasts, eyes and skulls
And left behind upon a grassy bleed
The essence of raw cut skeletons
That bathed therein immaculate mystery.