XXV, 1

There's force to this cold sun, makes beard stubble stand shinily. We look, we pretend great things to our glass — rubbing our chin: This is a profound comedian who grimaces deeds into slothful breasts. This is a sleepy president, without followers save oak leaves — but their coats are of the wrong color. This is a farmer — plowed a field in his dreams and since that time — goes stroking the weeds that choke his furrows. This is a poet left his own country —