by John Crowe Ransom
Well, the fool wilfully had chosen his spare
Entertainment — and rooks flapping in his face —
And rats whiskering at his toes and every place —
And a crust and a cold house are philosopher's fare —
So his patriot brother hastened to prepare
The King his welcome. Edith with little heart
Helped him, and thought on Abbott's nobler part,
Till listen! a silver music of fanfare.
Strange how she managed more color then, and less cold.
Kings are divine — it is declared by tones
The horn-blowers send through the skies — caparisons
Heaven-golden on the horses — plume and lance
Their blue-eyed angels at the morning dance;
For their divinity is manifold.
Last updated October 11, 2022