This was the state
Of my young heritage.
Scarlet as the voice of trumpets
Was the pageant of my days.
Can I accept now
The twilight?
And soon the dark, where all colors
Die?
Before I die, I will hold one last revel!
I will have golden cups and poppy curtains!—
And yet—
No! . . . In a black hall
The black table shall spread far down before me
And all the feasters garbed in black.
Then, at the feast's height, I arising
Shall with a gesture like the midnight
Throw back my midnight robe and suddenly stand
Naked, the sole white flame of the world.
EMANUEL MORGAN
Opus 63
THE seven deathly spears of memory
Setting behind a god, a golden glorious
Halo of land and sea
Even for you and me,
Even for us . . .
The spear of Egypt,
Orange,
Through the sleeping lid,
With all the power of the bulk of a pyramid.
The spear of Chile,
Yellow,
Through the thrilling cheek,
With all the push of an upturned Andean peak.
The spear of Thibet,
Violet,
Through the eager hand,
The thrust of the iron of a silent land.
The spear of the Ice-Poles,
Green,
Through the warm-breathing breast,
The glacial east and the glacial west