History’s passenger, the fastidious American
Observes and records with cool discernment,
Passionate for art, not for passion.
All these adventures in the mind-
Indirections, omissions, anxiety, control...
A lonely old celibate in an English villa,
Surrounding himself with precious artefacts,
He rewrites their beauty with critical élan,
His solitary solace this difficult craft
That wrings a man out, squeezes him dry.
The last springtime of the century:
Mourning a absent young ephebe
Held off-perhaps wrongly-but tenderly-
He sees, in the mirror, grey streaks in his beard...
Too late? Too late? He must begin again,
Believing in new discoveries and ambitions,
To ensphere the soul entire,
Open himself to all he has neglected,
Break out to the great world beyond
And share in unpretentious human warmth.
Too long concealed and muffled by this beard,
With sudden resolution, he shaves
And stares back at the clean rejuvenated face,
Domed skull, strong nose, sensuous lips,
The deep blue lyncean eyes of the Master.
In his mind, a new book is taking shape:
His grave, measured voice sounds through
The hosue, dictating to an amanuensis,
Evolving long sinuous sphyngine sentences.
On his bicycle, he hums along seaside lanes,
Enacting his mind’s looping motions,
Winding in and out with aristocratic aplomb.
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