Golden Age

Even in fortunate times, The nectar is spiked with woe. Gods are incorrigibly Capricious, and the needy Beg in Nineveh or sleep In paper-gusting plazas Of the New World’s shopping malls. Meantime, the tyrant battens On conquest, while advisers, Angling for preferment, seek Expedient paths. Heartbroken, The faithful advocate looks Back on cities of the plain And trudges into exile. And if any era thrives, It’s only because, somewhere, In a plane tree’s shade, friends sketch The dust with theorems and proofs, Or because, instinctively, A man puts his arm around The shoulder of grief and walks It (for an hour or an age) Through all its tears and telling.