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Poem	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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