(no subject)
The images are trite. And yet, and yet
I do remember when I found them new,
and would have sworn that they were simply true,
and bore repeating lest we should forget;
or else I was so throughly ravished that
I had no choice but write the things I do:
so by compulsion, even when I knew
what tripe it was I wrote, I wrote it yet.
But now the damnèd images seem trite
to a mind long since lost to pride and spite.
But why must they return again? And why does
Falen keep rhyming Pushkin's eloquent fire
with his equally eloquent desire,
a theme long since to me as gold to Midas?
I do remember when I found them new,
and would have sworn that they were simply true,
and bore repeating lest we should forget;
or else I was so throughly ravished that
I had no choice but write the things I do:
so by compulsion, even when I knew
what tripe it was I wrote, I wrote it yet.
But now the damnèd images seem trite
to a mind long since lost to pride and spite.
But why must they return again? And why does
Falen keep rhyming Pushkin's eloquent fire
with his equally eloquent desire,
a theme long since to me as gold to Midas?