The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.
The sound of words waits—
a barbarian host at the border-line of sense.
The enamourd guards desert their posts
harkening to the lion-smell of a poem
that rings in their ears.
—Dreams, a certain guard said,
were never designd so
to re-arrange an empire.
Along about six o’clock I take out my guitar
and sing to a lion
who sleeps like a line of poetry
in the shed of wars.
The man shedding his belief
knows that the lion is not asleep,
does not dream, is never asleep,
is a wide-awake poem
waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard;
the beautiful boundaries of the empire
naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion.
(The barbarians have passd over the significant phrase)
—When I was asleep,
a certain guard says,
a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears
and appeard as a lonely lion
waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars.
I sang the song that he waited to hear,
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet-Acclaimd.
Dear, dear, dear, dear, I sang,
believe, believe, believe, believe.
The shed of wars is splendid as the sky,
houses our waiting like a pure song
housing in its words the lion-smell
of the beloved disrobed.
I sang: believe, believe, believe.
I the guard because of my guitar
believe. I am the certain guard,
certain of the Beloved, certain of the Lion,
certain of the Empire. I with my guitar.
Dear, dear, dear, dear, I sing.
I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard.
The border-lines of sense in the morning light
are naked as a line of poetry in a war.