Classic Poem

Through the turbulent servility
Of a churlish city street
He strides opaquely; nothing in his walk
Resembles an advancing gleam.
His lips are muffled iron
Stubbornly following even thoughts.
His gayly pugnacious head
Seems worried because no dread
Remains for it to slay.
His eyes hold a severity
That recalls itself while leaping
And often melts into grey amusement.
The bent poise of his body
Tells of walls that threw him back,
Only to crumble underneath
The stunned friendliness of his face.
Through the angularly churlish street
He walks, and stoops beneath the captured weight
Of eyes that do not see him.