My eyes like two black diamonds shine 'neath my Rembrandt hat. The coat I choose is wrought of raven broadcloth fine, and jet-black are my polished shoes. Black locks profuse 'round pallid chaps, long Valois nose that droops askance. A hint of mockery, perhaps. The rigid pose of arrogance. Ironic smile and frank regard (Nature, you also love to mock!) and the air of biting something hard when with a scheming knave I talk. Before the church of Saint-Germain, my shade beneath its steps supine, at times to watch the Louvre I'm fain, sad in the sunset's slow decline. A king I should have loved to be: some luckless Louis XIII, no doubt. -- He's sly, indeed, who'd ferret out the sentimental poet in me. Yet for me, alas, as for all the rest, God fashioned a heart. Our Heavenly Sire, creating all things, loves to jest and seals in ice a raging fire. All the sounding lyres of earth I need. The human soul I make my creed. My mind's an alembic. Gold is mixed there with blood, with roses and with Shakespeare. |