The Mask of Dante (2012)


            How vain, to want to see the poet’s face
            so long after his death. As if I’d find
            some vestige of his wisdom, or some trace

            of all his words, some aspect of his mind
            within his face. What, even, would I ask
            of these sad eyes, this craggy nose, these lines

            set in by his life’s grief, if these lips cast
            in stone began to speak? The face, perhaps
            like every face, is nothing but a mask;

            and I try not to see, but wear, the mask.

1 comment:

  1. Very fine - chiselled even - poem. Very good indeed.

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