Chrysostom in his age consults his map.
His beating mind convulves and comes half-stopped,
Mistaking signs of shaken elegance
For fearful loss of mind’s articulation,
That splendid, brilliant turning of the key.
Inside his white head moves the golden mouth.
His pledges to the doe in tiger’s mouth
Restrain his iron thoughts against his map.
If age and holiness have not a key
It is no call to have all aging stopped
Or not to welcome death’s transfiguration;
Make one more dazzled act of elegance.
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