On A Bust

Your speeches seemed to answer for the nonce,         They do not justify your head in bronze!         Your essays! talent's failures were to you         Your philosophic gamut, but things true,         Or beautiful, oh never! What's the pons         For you to cross to fame? Your head in bronze?         What has the artist caught? The sensual chin         That melts away in weakness from the skin,         Sagging from your indifference of mind;         The sullen mouth that sneers at human kind         For lack of genius to create or rule;         The superficial scorn that says "you fool!"         The deep-set eyes that have the mud-cat look         Which 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 rise         To cosmic irony in what you dream,         More like a tomcat sniffing yellow cream.         The brow! 'Tis worth the bronze it's molded in         Save for the flat-top head and narrow thin         Backhead 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 caught         In the swift turning wheels of iron thought.         With butcher knives your hands can vivisect         Our butterflies, but you can not erect         Temples of beauty, wisdom. You can crawl         Hungry and subtle over Eden's wall,         And shame half grown up truth, or make a lie         Full grown as good. You cannot glorify         Our 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 wine         For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline         You went through sloven spirit, craven heart         And cynic indolence. And here the art         Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce         And made your shame our shame - your head in bronze!         Some day this bust will lie amid old metals         Old copper boilers, wires, faucets, kettles.         Some day it will be melted up and molded         In door knobs, inkwells, paper knives, or folded         In leaves and wreaths around the capitals         Of marble columns, or for arsenals         Fashioned in something, or in course of time         Successively made each of these, from grime         Rescued successively, or made a bell         For fire or worship, who on earth can tell?         One thing is sure, you will not long be dust         When this bronze will be broken as a bust         And given to the junkman to re-sell.         You know this and the thought of it is hell!