THE GOLDEN HEAD
Then I myself,
Rising austere and dumb,
On the high shelf
Of my half-lighted room
Would place the shining bust,
And wait alone,
Until I was but dust,
Buried unknown.
Thus, in my love
For nations yet unborn,
I would remove
From our two lives the morn,
And muse on old speeches
In mine armchair,
Content, should Time confess
How sweet you were.
42
