Spring 1942 • Vol. IV No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1942 |

Latter Day

Historian, these hills Mock a late race, remembering Tall senators at dawn Walking the dew ways. Where have they gone, the guardians? Emperor is thief, and matrons Muddy the sweet spring, selling Daughters for salt song. Legions long forgotten Rot by the marshes, dreaming Still of their brave return: Ah, the white city! Historian, you envy Him of the old days, scribe Of the first conclave, witness Of Jove and the moral wars. What if he came, that chronicler— Listen, tragedian—seeing Gold in the rubble: one Live soul in the cinders.? Covetous he broods, Even now, in his low tomb. When was such tale: The single Saint of the forum?

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