Classic Poem

Image of me according to John
Back from the world behind his brow,
Back from the boulevards of his brain,
My painted wraith, what ails you now?
Whom have you met with or discerned;
Where have you bivouacked or lain,
Who look like Caesar late returned
Exhausted from a long campaign?
Where were the tropic fields you fought?
What hostels heard your jibes and jests?
Alas! my wraith, you answer not;
But on your face a pallor rests.
The opals of Elysian skies
Such as he paints around his friends
Are not reflected in those eyes,
In vain that coloured peace descends;
And never in the meadows where
He sets his woman great with child,
And dew has calmed the atmosphere
And all the willowy light is mild —
O never in his mind's Provence
Did you come by that look of yours!
Some ecstasy of Love's mischance
Undreamt of by the Troubadours,
Or message passionate or absurd,
Has made you look as who should seek,
And yet lose, confidence in a word,
And seem to think before you speak.
Is it a warning? And, to me,
Your criticism upon Life?
If this be caused by Poetry?
What should a Poet tell his wife?
Whate'er it is, howe'er it came,
No matter by what devious track
My image journeyed, there is fame
In that it has come surely back.