Complaint
You made me profane the limit
Of all mirrors written lease
Of three scores and ten
To be a walking wake,
Spindly celebrant of bones?
Only their footprints on the shore I see
In straining everywhere my white wreck:
Had they not been my bossom's bride?
Where are the Jonathans that held to me
When Summer was my feet?
The wind is scorched, the earth is bare
Neither a bird in the air nor a spring to watch
Nor a pot to drool, nor a wall to brood
Nor dross to catch
For Gehazi without a mottled raiment...
Am I not better a plaque of transience?
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