Lament of a Fourth-Century Poet        

The great are gone.

All are dead.

Gold to silver

Into lead.


Virgil and Horace

Picked to the bone:

Not even Ovid

Left alone.


Beauty has fled.

Joy is done.

Owls in the Forum

Black the sun.


Ashes on ashes.

Laurel dust.

‘Wreaths for the Victor!’

There are none.