Stendhal

Italy, and a nom de plume—better than in the van

Of France defeated: his clean scarlet brain

Must work in a pure detachment over man

Who was nothing without his D.R.O.s again.

Love, hate, ambition mustered at his bugle,

Sorties of good and evil were in vain.

With watchful eye and towerings of the eagle

He must disarm the priests, immobilize pain.

But age rankled in knowledge on a night.

The matchless pen ran sometimes at a loss.

Upon military red and his scourged black

A question wrote its simple blinding track.

Hygienic roads knew bunglings of the Cross.

A galaxy, ungainly, was but white.