From the light most unusual,
In fate’s secluded nook,
Before we return to where
The minute doth slowly crook.

False prints ‘pon a throne
Of pale and ancient ivory,
Stirring art in circles known,
While in the pen, so dreary.

The same old gestures,
In perpetual courtesy’s guise,
Do naught for the heart that flutters
And bursts ‘neath the infinite eyes.

None to blame, none to censure,
In the throng where faces blend,
For it is not the heart’s pleasure
That these endless faces mend.

Marco Delrio

Throng

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