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!