David Morton
David Morton Poems
The Kings are passing deathward in the dark
Of days that had been splendid where they went;
Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark
Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent.
...
There is a memory stays upon old ships,
A weightless cargo in the musty hold, --
Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips,
Of stormy midnights, -- and a tale untold.
...
My faith is all a doubtful thing,
Wove on a doubtful loom, --
Until there comes, each showery spring,
A cherry-tree in bloom;
...
Men who have loved the ships they took to sea,
Loved the tall masts, the prows that creamed with foam,
...
Here is the record of their splendid days:
The curving prow, the tall and stately mast,
And all the width and wonder of their ways
...
These walls will not forget, through later days,
How they had bloomed with lifted, tossing heads
Of swaying girls who thronged these ordered ways,
...
David Morton Biography
David H. Morton (February 21, 1886 – June 13, 1957) was an American poet. Born in Elkton, Kentucky, he graduated from Vanderbilt University in 1909. After a decade of newspaper work, starting at the Louisville Courier-Journal, he became a teacher in the high school at Morristown, New Jersey. Beginning in 1924, he taught at Amherst College. His work appeared in Harper's Magazine.He is noted for having written a fan letter to Dashiell Hammett. Poetry: "The Kings Are Passing Deathward", Poetry X Poems: 1920-1945. A.A. Knopf. 1945. Poems of a Lifetime. Watermark Press. 1999. ISBN 9781582350752. Ships in the Harbor. G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1921.)
The Best Poem Of David Morton
The Kings Are Passing Deathward
The Kings are passing deathward in the dark
Of days that had been splendid where they went;
Their crowns are captive and their courts are stark
Of purples that are ruinous, now, and rent.
For all that they have seen disastrous things:
The shattered pomp, the split and shaken throne,
They cannot quite forget the way of Kings:
Gravely they pass, majestic and alone.
With thunder on their brows, their faces set
Toward the eternal night of restless shapes,
They walk in awful splendor, regal yet,
Wearing their crimes like rich and kingly capes . . .
Curse them or taunt, they will not hear or see;
The Kings are passing deathward: let them be.
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