Page:Tower of Ivory.djvu/28

12 Into a million twinklings, build new thing,

Nor call up life or beauty from the void,

Nor make the dead whose flesh is dead, alive.

I wallow in old ignorance. But still

There's miracle in that apparent smoke

You hold so lightly.

Aye, that's miracle

To make their hair move. Show us but a glimpse

Of that smoke-Alexander, and your name

Shall ride with Nostradamus' Pleiades

Down to the end of Time.

By Heaven, Yes!

I'll write you in clear latin, with a boss

Of gold and crimson, on the parchment roll

Of Wittenberg's immortals. But no smoke

Of Alexander. 'Twas a tearful king,

A bulk of griefs.