Glory, not the Mundane
Why let the facts invade the realm of beauty?
The truth is not the point, or rather Truth
Is sovereign. It is the poet’s duty
To cut through ugliness to regal youth
And highest glories, not to serve glib facts.
The loveliness of lively shapes and skin
In sunlight is what man’s mind will make pacts
With. Hellenic forms, exquisite as sin
In bed with smooth vanilla complexions,
Are what a poem aims for. Scrub out faults.
Leave only most delicious perfections
For eye and fingers. Bow down in the vaults
Of sweat’s ideals. A villanelle’s pursuit
Is glowing blossom, not the earth-bound root.
