by John Crowe Ransom
"Fool, Fool,— was Abbott's word; he turned that name
Outward upon a world of pretty creatures
With rooks' pleasant voices and rats' sweet features,
Born of their mothers noble yet sunk in shame,
Mouthing and nosing, flapping and creeping to fame,--
Inward upon himself if in their faithless ways
He'd sniffed at gold, love, glory in other days
Or anywise had forgot to honor his Dame.
But Fool had the world said too, because he dwelt
Lone in his tower, long after the occasion
Of minatory Authority's invasion;
The King had gone and Paul restored his right
Yet he clung to his cold and poverty and night
And leaned in the rain; the rain came down unfelt.
Last updated April 01, 2023