That civilisation may not sink, Its
great battle lost, Quiet
the dog, tether the pony To
a distant post; Our
master Caesar is in the tent Where
the maps are spread, His
eyes fixed upon nothing, A
hand under his head. Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream His
mind moves upon silence. That
the topless towers be burnt And
men recall that face, Move
most gently if move you must In
this lonely place. She
thinks, part woman, three parts a child, That
nobody looks; her feet Practise
a tinker shuffle Picked
up on a street. Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream Her
mind moves upon silence. That
girls at puberty may find The
first Adam in their thought, Shut
the door of the Pope’s chapel, Keep
those children out. There
on that scaffolding reclines Michael
Angelo. With
no more sound than the mice make His
hand moves to and fro. Like
a long-legged fly upon the stream His mind moves upon silence. |
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