Nemesis

The old men with too much gamble in them, whose eyes Are at peace only when all is lost, see the Queen's quiet face On the deck of cards, the red cuff of  her cloak, the raw tip Of  her tongue, the blood on her dress    . . .    What fled from them In their frenzies comes tiptoeing back, choiring, to the marble Concert hall where Nemesis, in velvet opera cape, is beginning Her recitative:it is your turn to go slowly now,with hands clasped behind your back,drowsy from the earth's sweet abundance and her great deprivations,the rows of crooked trees, the streets' bright monotony, and gather up the starving. . .