De Quiros Embraces the Way
Seldom would trees have
that uncanny light, the jade
configuration like doom itself.
You thought the ending of the world
had come. Lucid arteries
seemed to flow with the green blood
of trees, for nothing less seemed
worthy of the scene. Perfect
in imperfection are the great
doyens of poetry—the Prince of Sung,
a hawk balanced in the air.
But lo here, when they thrum the lyre,
you lesser ones! For perchance in jest
you could receive ranking of canard;
your door be marked for the next
pogrom of non-conformist poets.
So pass on, pale rider, sinner.
Pass teachers too of lesser princes
and touters of muses tainted for sale.
At length you lie gasping, stranded,
purveyor of a rain-discoloured blotch.