The Laureate

Like a lizard in the sun, though not scuttling
When men approach, this wretch, this thing of rage,
Scowls and sits rhyming in his horny age.
His time and truth he has not bridged to ours,
But shrivelled by long heliotropic idling
He croaks at us his out of date humours.
Once long ago here was a poet who died.
See how remorse twitching his mouth proclaims
It was no natural death but suicide.
Arrogant, deaf, unvenerable, he
Still turns for comfort to the western flames
That glitter a cold span above the sea.