When knights repose in meadows And the hidden kings decree, Why does Johnny twist his tongue Pour La Belle Dame sans Merci? God made His mountains So we’d learn how to climb, Like the Devil made Percy To free us from Time. I am the Disaster of Dirt and Plaster, The cursling of the Sky; I clog up the pores of maidens and bores; They weep, but I merely cry. Little birds, weep not for Adonais! I tended him on his coughing bed, Wiping the mouth’s great gleam of red, Then fit my Shelley for his shoes of lead.
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