Grasp: the merchants of Perth                                                                                                          sew the surfeits of Heath                                                                                                                (waxing consorts of wealth),                                                                                                           carem courtesan earth;                                                                                                                     cast on trade winds of seas,                                                                                                        caravanseries.

From the wide courts of Tyre                                                                                                              to the high spires of Rome,                                                                                                                whence the sore river Rhone                                                                                                         lends the Ver, Zaire;                                                                                                                               spring the fair sons of men,                                                                                                             pluming, tare, cachen.

Their grand consul affair                                                                                                                brings a new age to brim,                                                                                                                   sings an altering hymn                                                                                                                          to the aegis’ ear;                                                                                                                                 struck on high in accord                                                                                                                        of its peerless lord.

On the counsel of gold go                                                                                                                        men ringing up deeds,                                                                                                                          in the service of leeds                                                                                                                     seasoned over, in sew;                                                                                                                       over arches at lien                                                                                                                                     in a world, unseen.



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The Tore

The tore, rent, is sent churling,                                                                                                          by a forked instrument,                                                                                                                      till it strikes the gate’s curling                                                                                                              in astonishment.

Fair spectators clasp flowers,                                                                                                          cast in lots on the clods;                                                                                                                         the collection of hours                                                                                                                             spent in fields at lauds.

Within choruses chanting,                                                                                                              through this vast hippodrome,                                                                                                       lifts, the Spirit of hunting;                                                                                                                  sits, Diana, enthroned.

Till, at last! The gilt magnate                                                                                                              of the crowd’s bent esteem                                                                                                                 (in the gleam of the agate,                                                                                                                   of the agate’s grit-gleam),

whirls a rouge for the pedant                                                                                                               at its caperous charge;                                                                                                                      the illusion-divergent                                                                                                                             for the tore-beast, at large.

The wide smile of a victor                                                                                                                   bears the toreador,                                                                                                                                 to the thundering spector:                                                                                                                 the arena-toror.

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