They gave me, when I was a little boy,
when thought was new, and words were yet my own,
a sharp sword, shaped as all brave boys enjoy—
the likeness of the story swords he’s known.
And what they thought I’d do with my new blade
is anybody’s guess. Perhaps not death
they thought would come from the gift that they gave,
perhaps not bloodlust would tempt the boy’s breath.
But any boy who has a sword like that
will have to fight the thought at some point soon—
nobility will have its just combat,
but will eventually be nature-hewn.
And now the sword they gave me is stained red,
and I’m the one who lays before it, dead.
~~~
It is the thing that loves man as a boy,
and loves boy as a man, though foolishly;
and finds such wisdom in such an employ,
that makes the teacher turn home tacitly.
It is the thing that treats the keen with care,
and returns care with keenness back again;
and though the dull should never dream to dare
to care for better minds, no better’s been.
It looks at beauty, seeing but the brash,
and takes what’s brash for beauty every time;
and none who cannot see past their panache
will know the elegance of one’s love’s grime.
You loved my boyhood, and I loved your mind,
and every beauty was a backwards kind.