METAMORPHOSES

METAMORPHOSES

It seems I can still see him Longing for Rome Dying an exile among barbarians Prisoner of a lost world Existing only in his unattended moments Thus did he catch a gleam Beyond the hawthorn barrier Of white gravestones between The dark red-berry clusters And the leaves dusty green

Nothing could console him Neither the simple kindness Of the peasants nor the memory Of the marvellous changes wrought In all but the dumb instinct self

Thus did he tread a path Among the decaying tombs The same impacted earth Mute with ancient bones Whispering secret death

Now I can understand The utter desolation Of his thrice exiled spirit Lost to himself his country And the gods of his imagination Thus did he stop to see Within an open grave The unthought of banality Ovid poet of change Without gods or poetry