That was to be a part be everything,
And so drive out your daemon till your star
Should sing unheard for you whose ears were left
Only for drums and songs of your destroyers?
And now even they are gone—all but the drums.
You knew that if you waited, they, not you,
Should cease—that they should all be hushed at last
In that great golden choral fire of sound.
‘Symphony Number Three. Fernando Nash.’
Five little words, like that, if you had waited,
Would be enough tonight, you flabby scallion,
To put you on the small roll of the mighty.
As for the other two, they’re in a box
Under the bed; and they will soon be nowhere.
You do not have to mourn now over them,
For they were only ladders carrying you
[ 17 ]
