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Poem	Child of a line accurst And old as Troy, Bringer of best and worst In wild alloy— Light, like a linnet first, He sang for joy. Thrall to the gilded ease Of every day, Mocker of all degrees And always gay, Child of the Cyclades And of Broadway— Laughing and half divine The boy began, Drunk with a woodland wine Thessalian: But there was rue to twine The pipes of Pan. Therefore he skipped and flew The more along, Vivid and always new And always wrong, Knowing his only clew A siren song. Careless of each and all He gave and spent: Feast or a funeral He laughed and went, Laughing to be so small In the event. Told of his own deceit By many a tongue, Flayed for his long defeat By being young, Lured by the fateful sweet Of songs unsung— Knowing it in his heart, But knowing not The secret of an art That few forgot, He played the twinkling part That was his lot. And when the twinkle died, As twinkles do, He pushed himself aside And out of view: Out with the wind and tide, Before we knew.
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