what's o'clock
107
Over inanities a decent planet
Might be ashamed to carry. Neron took
His younger self as motto; every phase
Which others linger in had once been his,
But in the end he had flung clear of all.
They served him in the way of illustration.
He built them up like blocks to knock them down
And chuckle at the noise they made in falling.
These visions of himself were warlock dreams
Conjured up with a wand-stroke from the air
And swept away as easily upon
The imperious order of another gesture.
This pastime lifted Neron to a god,
Or something similar, if only language
Had found a word for it. But superstition
Held words too rigid in a certain groove
For any purpose Neron had for them;
Giving a thing no name exacts obedience
To any chasing colour or humour one
Might be ashamed to carry. Neron took
His younger self as motto; every phase
Which others linger in had once been his,
But in the end he had flung clear of all.
They served him in the way of illustration.
He built them up like blocks to knock them down
And chuckle at the noise they made in falling.
These visions of himself were warlock dreams
Conjured up with a wand-stroke from the air
And swept away as easily upon
The imperious order of another gesture.
This pastime lifted Neron to a god,
Or something similar, if only language
Had found a word for it. But superstition
Held words too rigid in a certain groove
For any purpose Neron had for them;
Giving a thing no name exacts obedience
To any chasing colour or humour one
