what's o'clock
109
Which burns youth into powder; his old bones
Were brittle, maybe, but not to that fire,
And yet its simulacrum was most fit
To muse upon and glow vicariously,
Warming safe fingers at a painted flame.
And Neron felt a queasy sort of pride
In mocking his old wounds with jibes that pricked
To a delicious flood of memory.
The hurt outgrown was tonic to his years.
He plied his ridicule so lustily
His body shook and rattled where he sat.
But manhood, flattering itself with windy praise,
Hugging the spiky guerdon of a name
With letters to it, gratified beyond
Desire by the cheap grace of epithet—
What monument of satire was this!
What exquisite lampooning!—O, the mirth
Of stars and ribbons viewed from the vast height
Of Neron's imperturbability!
Were brittle, maybe, but not to that fire,
And yet its simulacrum was most fit
To muse upon and glow vicariously,
Warming safe fingers at a painted flame.
And Neron felt a queasy sort of pride
In mocking his old wounds with jibes that pricked
To a delicious flood of memory.
The hurt outgrown was tonic to his years.
He plied his ridicule so lustily
His body shook and rattled where he sat.
But manhood, flattering itself with windy praise,
Hugging the spiky guerdon of a name
With letters to it, gratified beyond
Desire by the cheap grace of epithet—
What monument of satire was this!
What exquisite lampooning!—O, the mirth
Of stars and ribbons viewed from the vast height
Of Neron's imperturbability!
