Читать книгу Advice: A Book of Poems - Maxwell Bodenheim - Страница 12

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Your head is steel cut into drooping lines

That make a mask satirically meek:

Your face is like a tired devil weak

From drinking many vague and unsought wines.

The sullen skepticism of your eyes

For ever trying to transcend itself,

Is often entered by a wistful elf

Who sits naïvely unperturbed and wise.

And this same remnant, with its youthful wiles

Held curiously apart from blasphemies,

Twirls starlight shivers out upon your sneers

And changes them to little, startled smiles.

And all your insolence drops to its knees

Before the half-won grandeur of past years.