In the bay there is a man,
An old foolish man,
Who lives on in his steel,
His flowers speak of glory.
All wrapped up in his irony
Dull corners, no longer perverse-
Are touched by golden light
That alleviates his curse.
Who dares remember his walls-
The nothing driven ne'er-do-wells,
Locked in their little boxes,
Serving their little hells.
Yet stranger eyes admire him,
A study fit for Feste,
Romantically unromantic,
A bitter, laughing jest.
Old man, he stands,
No wiser than long ago-
A house of no remorse
Yet too weak to act the foe.
