ON A BUST
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our speeches seemed to answer for the nonce--They do not justify your head in bronze!Your essays! talent's failures were to youYour philosophic gamut, but things true,Or beautiful, oh never! What's the ponsFor you to cross to fame?--Your head in bronze? What has the artist caught? The sensual chinThat melts away in weakness from the skin,Sagging from your indifference of mind;The sullen mouth that sneers at human kindFor lack of genius to create or rule;The superficial scorn that says "you fool!"The deep-set eyes that have the mud-cat lookWhich might belong to Tolstoi or a crook.The nose half-thickly fleshed and half in point,And lightly turned awry as out of joint;The eyebrows pointing upward satyr-wise,Scarce like Mephisto, for you scarcely riseTo cosmic irony in what you dream--More like a tomcat sniffing yellow cream.The brow! 'Tis worth the bronze it's molded inSave for the flat-top head and narrow thinBackhead which shows your spirit has not soared.You are a Packard engine in a Ford,Which wrecks itself and turtles with its load,Too light and powerful to keep the road.The master strength for twisting words is caughtIn the swift turning wheels of iron thought.With butcher knives your hands can vivisectOur butterflies, but you can not erectTemples of beauty, wisdom. You can crawlHungry and subtle over Eden's wall,And shame half grown up truth, or make a lieFull grown as good. You cannot glorifyOur dreams, or aspirations, or deep thirst.To you the world's a fig tree which is curst.You have preached every faith but to betray;The artist shows us you have had your day. A giant as we hoped, in truth a dwarf;A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf,Which seemed at first a vessel with sweet wineFor thirsty lips. So down the swift declineYou went through sloven spirit, craven heartAnd cynic indolence. And here the artOf molding clay has caught you for the nonceAnd made your shame our shame--your head in bronze!Some day this bust will lie amid old metalsOld copper boilers, wires, faucets, kettles.Some day it will be melted up and moldedIn door knobs, inkwells, paper knives, or foldedIn leaves and wreaths around the capitalsOf marble columns, or for arsenalsFashioned in something, or in course of timeSuccessively made each of these, from grimeRescued successively, or made a bellFor fire or worship, who on earth can tell?One thing is sure, you will not long be dustWhen this bronze will be broken as a bustAnd given to the junkman to re-sell.You know this and the thought of it is hell!
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