Classic Poem

Ay, sure, this is most brave ;
That I …
the live son of a dead father
Doomed by my living breath itself to die

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words
Why must I speak of it? Why must I always
Stoop from this decent silence to this phrase
That makes a posture of my hurt? Why must I
Say I suffer? … or write out these words
For eyes to stare at that shall soon as mine
Or little after me go thick and lose
The light too, or for solemn fettered fools
To judge if I said neatly what I said?—
Make verses! … ease myself at the soiled stool
That's common to so swollen many! … shout
For hearing in the world's thick dirty ear! …
Expose my scabs! … crowd forward among those
That beg for fame, that for so little praise
As pays a dog off will go stiff and tell
Their loss, lust, sorrow, anguish! … match
My grief with theirs! … compel the public prize
For deepest feeling and put on the bays! …
Oh shame, for shame to suffer it, to make
A skill of harm, a business of despair,
And like a barking ape betray us all
For itch of notice.
Oh be still, be still,
Be dumb, be silent only. Seal your mouth.
Take place upon this edge of shadow where
The stale scene's acted to the empty skies.
Observe the constellations. Watch the face
Of heaven if it change to what it sees.
Spy on the moon. Be cunning.
And be still.
We have that duty to each other here
To fear in secret. For it is not known.
The dreams that trouble us may be the shape
Of ill within that by a faulted eye
Abuses us to damn us.
I'll have grounds
More relative than this …