I. <br />There’s a little square in Paris, <br />Waiting until we pass. <br />They sit idly there, <br />They sip the glass. <br /> <br />There’s a cab-horse at the corner, <br />There's rain. The season grieves. <br />It was silver once, <br />And green with leaves. <br /> <br />There’s a parrot in a window, <br />Will see us on parade, <br />Hear the loud drums roll— <br />And serenade. <br /> <br />II. <br />This was the salty taste of glory, <br />That it was not <br />Like Agamemnon’s story. <br />Only, an eyeball in the mud, <br />And Hopkins, <br />Flat and pale and gory! <br /> <br />III. <br />But the bugles, in the night, <br />Were wings that bore <br />To where our comfort was; <br /> <br />Arabesques of candle beams, <br />Winding <br />Through our heavy dreams; <br /> <br />Winds that blew <br />Where the bending iris grew; <br /> <br />Birds of intermitted bliss, <br />Singing in the night's abyss; <br /> <br />Vines with yellow fruit, <br />That fell <br />Along the walls <br />That bordered Hell. <br /> <br />IV. <br />Death's nobility again <br />Beautified the simplest men. <br />Fallen Winkle felt the pride <br />Of Agamemnon <br />When he died. <br /> <br />What could London’s <br />Work and waste <br />Give him— <br />To that salty, sacrificial taste? <br /> <br />What could London’s <br />Sorrow bring— <br />To that short, triumphant sting?<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/phases-8/
