ELEANOR ROSS TAYLOR
Lawrence at the Etruscan Tombs
He swaggers with feverish grin,
frail tyrant rasping at the guides:
To the tombs! Now!
(Rude opener of cans of worms,
young addict of the female clasp.)
A stiff dog, sunning, shakes himself No,
sighs; men descend
into a night, a cold.
Down, down dirt steps the lanterns gutter;
flame unsheaths tufa beams,
furls out redbody and blacklock—
Rise! laced foot on a wakened road!
A syrinx cry of Battle . . .
Tuberculoidal fervor rakes dead walls
room after room: Freedom’s big-eyed stare?
blind servitude? majestically
the painted shades unfurl,
struck by his brandished light:
goddesses horseback, bright caustic worlds—
Old heroes bat their eyes,
wrench hands loose from the paint
to shade their sight—
waked in this shafted night
with David’s short long glory.
Homesick in Paradise
Three Days in Flower
When to Stop
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