Your mind was wrought in cosmic solitude, Through which careered an undulous pageantry Of fiends and suns, darkness and boiling sea, All held in ordered sway by beauty's mood. Guest-champion lent by God, in might you stood Before the throngs of men; you helped to free Their souls; below, you played in heavenly key Your heart's concerto - throbbing interlude. But your suave Egoist, for selfish fame, Hurled to the bogs of Hell the Rebel Will And boxed him dark in freedom's smudgy hearse; He paid blood-price for thought; his noble shame Was like the Greeks. Ironically, you thrill Me not with goodness, but with thundering verse. |