John Milbury-Steen 

My Ardor for the Muse 


I live for her.  I live in hopes I will
suffer to be crushed to beautiful.
My own green carbon like a tree that fell
into its stratum can be pressed a while
until I form for her great crown a small
encaretation of myself, a jewel.

 

But if compression of my florid style
does not proceed that far, I hope that I'll
at least be pressed into a lump of coal
worthy of her furnace to help fill
her house with cheer against the age's chill,
as I am worried she does not look well.

 

She glances out.  A dozen trucks at once
are always dumping on her lawn and plants
so much coal, her furnace glows, the vents
are capable of cooking joints of beef,
and such a tonnage of briquettes she points,
"I guess I'll have to grill some elephants."