We Who Ride This Melancholy Car
We who ride this melancholy car,
Through the blackness of uncountable
suns,
Through the birdsong and the bee
hum,
And all the bright business of
mankind flitting,
At our lace-webbed windows,
Herein we are a dependency of frozen
worlds ,
Circling a now extinguished star,
Fearing the newly loosened cord,
Fearing the motley universe,
And fearing most the little bag of
dust,
Once he had commerce and
civilization,
Agitation and war, Religion and
belief,
And Love was known to wander half
mad,
Half naked the lighted boulevards,
Wasn't there once a small Tsarina
lost in those streets?
Her gold curls, her jeweled cap, her
brocade dress,
Disappeared in the press of
journeymen and sailors,
Down the long and narrow street to a
place where terror meets pain,
Now, in their parlors, her cousin
Princes speak In muted tones, for it is finished, done,
Except the telling of a worm-holed
tale,
And I know not the bard of those
lyrics,
For I hear the preacher shouting,
And the choir crying "Brook of
Jordan."
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