To braid out of the air a son’rous crown Much deft requires; and for thy head, much more. Upon thy lips like clinging dew they drown Into such cauldrons of ambrose that war And famine seem the blue tongue o’ a struck match, And Holy is the darkness what does close In purple tides around that treacherous watch; The needle is best thrid by one that knows, And of thy garments most the people love Cassia and gold, the ones your mother wove Out of the silver spit and the black mud, Because it must be thus with the twice-born: Firstly, our name is traitor; one by one, The triplet p’s upon our sweating heads Are shucked of us, and like the golden corn That stands arrayed like Rome upon the sun, So are we left.
(a trifle)
To braid out of the air a son’rous crown Much deft requires; and for thy head, much more. Upon thy lips like clinging dew they drown Into such cauldrons of ambrose that war And famine seem the blue tongue o’ a struck match, And Holy is the darkness what does close In purple tides around that treacherous watch; The needle is best thrid by one that knows, And of thy garments most the people love Cassia and gold, the ones your mother wove Out of the silver spit and the black mud, Because it must be thus with the twice-born: Firstly, our name is traitor; one by one, The triplet p’s upon our sweating heads Are shucked of us, and like the golden corn That stands arrayed like Rome upon the sun, So are we left.