12
Tower of Ivory
Into a million twinklings, build new thing,
Nor call up life or beauty from the void,
Nor make the dead whose flesh is dead, alive.
Fritz
I wallow in old ignorance. But still
There's miracle in that apparent smoke
You hold so lightly.
Christopher
Aye, that's miracle
To make their hair move. Show us but a glimpse
Of that smoke-Alexander, and your name
Shall ride with Nostradamus' Pleiades
Down to the end of Time.
Matthiolus
By Heaven, Yes!
I'll write you in clear latin, with a boss
Of gold and crimson, on the parchment roll
Of Wittenberg's immortals. But no smoke
Of Alexander. 'Twas a tearful king,
A bulk of griefs.
