Transitional Poem
33
The silly self-betrayerWhose Cronic appetiteGobbles up all his brood;And I found, in body's despite,A moral to clinch the mood.
They say that a mathematicianOnce fell to such a passionFor and , he lockedHis door to keep outsideWhatever might distractHim from his heavenly bride:And presently diedIn the keenest of blissesWith a dozen untasted dishesOutside his door. O man,Feed Cronos with a stone.He's easily decoyedWho, perched on any throne,Happily gnaws the void.
From this theoric towerCorn-land and city seemA lovely skiagram:You could not guess what sourContagion has outwornThose streets of men and corn.
