His gift knew what he was — a dark disordered city;
Doubt hid it from the father’s fond chastising sky;
Where once the mother-farms had glowed protectively.
Stood the haphazard alleys of the neighbour’s pity.
— Yet would have gladly lived in him and learned his ways.
And grown observant like a beggar, and become
Familiar with each square and boulevard and slum,
And found in the disorder a whole world to praise.
But all his homeless reverence, revolted, cried:
am my father’s forum and he shall be heard.
Nothing shall contradict his holy final word,
Nothing.” And thrust his gift in prison till it died.
And left him nothing but a jailor’s voice and face.
And all rang hollow but the clear denunciation
Of a gregarious optimistic generation
That saw itself already in a father’s place.