Yes, this must be a book; no other place
Could epics, heroes, tales like this one thrive.
Such sorrow graven on a heart and face
Belongs on paper only, not alive.
Oh, say it is a book, and turn the page,
As one who passes o'er what troubles him!
The evils gather, and the scandals rage--
Then turn, for honor pales and hope grows dim.
Why cannot this one drama, like the rest,
Like those of Greece, of England, of mankind,
Be put in poetry, the sins confessed,
And then forgot, for centures combined?
We are sad actors--we must play ourselves,
And cannot put our lives back on the shelves.
- ▼ March (4)