Shadrach OLeary

 O’Leary was a poet—for a while: 
He sang of many ladies frail and fair, 
The rolling glory of their golden hair, 
And emperors extinguished with a smile. 
They foiled his years with many an ancient wile,
And if they limped, O’Leary didn’t care: 
He turned them loose and had them everywhere, 
Undoing saints and senates with their guile. 

But this was not the end. A year ago 
I met him—and to meet was to admire:
Forgotten were the ladies and the lyre, 
And the small, ink-fed Eros of his dream. 
By questioning I found a man to know— 
A failure spared, a Shadrach of the Gleam.

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