Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/345

 That was ordained and manifest, You shake it off and wish me joy of it? Laurel from every place, Laurel, but not the rest? Such are the words in you that I divine, Such are the words of men. So be it, and what then? Poor, tottering counterfeit, Are you a thing to tell me what is mine?

Grant we the demon sees An inch beyond the line, What comes of mine and thine? A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze, Or they may starve in fine. The Old Physician has a crimson cure For such as these, And ages after ages will endure The minims of it that are victories. The wreath may go from brow to brow, The state may flourish, flame, and cease; But through the fury and the flood somehow The demons are acquainted and at ease, And somewhat hard to please. Mine, I believe, is laughing at me now In his primordial way, Quite as he laughed of old at Hannibal, Or rather at Alexander, let us say. Therefore, be what you may, Time has no further need Of you, or of your breed. My demon, irretrievably astray, Has ruined the last chorus of a play That will, so he avers, be played again some day; And you, poor glowering ghost,