Got a sheet of the world
and authorized to depart this port,
I betake hereupon to Albany,
from the ancient audience of the age of man
to the gate
- to the imperial palace,
where the fountain of the horse courses,
- the sanctuary
where fugitives are immune from arrest.
Hold thorougly! A winged messenger
from the teacher's chair,
- the path over my head, belonging
to another but another self
who brings honourable reputation
to the rough and arid terrains
and serves all way, the elixir of life.
Interpreted as omens
from the flight of birds,
the stars in the eagle's eyes are bleary-eyed
If such blurred vision
obvious to the mind's eye, outdoes;
blind me, O God!
Sub specie aeternitatis,
is he a deputy of God in his art
of reason, that consecrates with blood
beyond the bronze money
and lights up a brighter fire
'gainst the slippery damp?
He wouldn't have praised that statue
in Rome, on which abusive latin verses
In all candour, that couch has a warrant
to arrest my balm;
- with curtains,
to repose any pillow.
His eyes are not shut
of that social standing
that do not mark the oblique lines
with good faith.
Tis a knowledge of nature
that does with art.
Held over, the drone of my bagpipe
that casts dancers 'round a twigfire,
a high song blow out on my trumpet
and on leaves so-and-so
for this guardian spirit begetting,
- summoned in defence,
that watches thoroughly over me.
How be it, Paidagogos' seat
wasn't elevated, he plucks
the woolen counterpane into pieces
to walk any man's forked root
and wheeled vehicle
along the Milky Way. The tapered tip
of my shoot bleeds 'cause he grafts
my bud. Which planter alike
must not grow the undying?
Like Portunus that protects harbours,
he sheathes the bottoms of ships
with copper and trims sails
to sail closer to the wind.
He plays my countenance.
I prance in triumph
as dances the mountain people.
Straying in thoughts,
my pulse stimulates by electricity.
All be it,
a horse is not used for general purposes;
should any knob on the vine
steal upon a pretty theft,
Or the Magus
be him led or driven,
shorn of his apparatus?
Let the weight held,
that gives jumpers impetus.
Comments about this poem (Allen Parmenter by Faeo 'Lyre' Clive )
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