(a trifle)

It’s humble men that craft a thing so well
It out-endures their flesh, decaying as it will,
Who make the marble laughing like a rill
Or shadow-hallowed tree that could have been
A nymph pursued by a hot star that fell
Into forgetfulness of its own deity;
It’s humble men who treat the words as if
They faned true presences; it’s pride
That slings too often words pretending otherwise,
Blue green and purple with a peacocks’ eyes
Perceptionless. A humble man
Made earth bombast with glorious
Bright clouds and zoological
Mysteriums; the man of pride
Will try to sell his footprint to his boots,
And publish trifles with the disregard
Insounciant waves have for the sand.