I
Old men go mad at night
but are not Lears
There is no kingly howling of their rage,
their grief, their fears, dementedly,
from sea-cliff into storm.
What’s left
is keeping hold of breath
and for cover never now a lover
rests them warm.
No title of dignity, now,
no height of old estate
Gives stature to the drama . . .
Ungrateful heirs, indeed!
Their treacherous seed
Turns them away from more than tall
gold-hammered doors:
Exiles them into such enormous night
skies have no room for it
And old men have no Fools except themselves.
II
Why is so much still wanted
in such a small place, haunted
by such —
No, pain’s not much.
Premonitory twinges . . .
but by then too late:
Pain’s courier
throws into panic of flight
before
Banner and drums and all of
armored might . . .
There is a wink of light
above a bedroom sill
until —
Was that a board that creaked
as he took leave of us,
or did he speak —
“I’m going to sleep, good night . . . ”
I have used the earth, I have abused the earth
Now must I lose the earth.
No breath for such a cry,
if there were thought or tongue . . .
Old men were never young.