Memorial Arbored in Immemorial Bronze

He who dozed before the immemorial sculpture
of midsummer, weighed with inhalations of rose,
felt the fragrance intermingle with his medleyed mind,
and said to himself, “Here I am the progenitor
of any exiled desire, maker of perpetual embellishment
amidst the filial filaments of gold, overspun
in the blush of overlife; I am above the clouds
and at the bottom of the earth and at the end
of everything. Here I am the patriarch
of metaphysical men, men who mingled with the wind
and never died,” and he felt immortality itself
die upon the tombs of memory, and he traced
the antique song along the yellowed tome of hymns
whose paper wilted like a will now done with him.

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