what's o'clock
189
The candles gutter in their sconces,
Curling long welts of evil-smelling smoke about my head.
The organ's voice is dead,
Or is it mine?
The banners flap
Like palls upon a bier
On windy midnight burials
Where torches flare a glittering imposture
About the loneliness of violated sod
Gashed open for a grave.
Curling long welts of evil-smelling smoke about my head.
The organ's voice is dead,
Or is it mine?
The banners flap
Like palls upon a bier
On windy midnight burials
Where torches flare a glittering imposture
About the loneliness of violated sod
Gashed open for a grave.
Pity me, then,
Who cry with wingless psalms,
Spellbound in midnight and chill organ pipes.
Above my eyes the banners bleed
Their dripping dust-specks,
Proclaiming the gaunt glories of successful battles.
Who cry with wingless psalms,
Spellbound in midnight and chill organ pipes.
Above my eyes the banners bleed
Their dripping dust-specks,
Proclaiming the gaunt glories of successful battles.
