Classic Poem

Five o'clock, and the gladiator sleeper
Turns in his doze, while like an etcher's jewel
That voice graves on the mind strokes kind or cruel:
" Richardson (with an owl-blink) was a creeper . "
" Byron's Parnassus was not high, but steeper
" Than Shelley's. " " There's an atmosphere of gruel
" And dressing-gowns round Cowper. " So the duel
With dullness goes. The half-back slumbers deeper.

But I remember an ambrosial night,
When sick at heart I sought him. How benign
He was. He talked of worlds that were not mine,
Emerson and Thoreau whom we do not know.
That worn old man — And yet I thought of white
Arbutus, and stone walls where blue flags grow.