In Manchester Square
(In Memoriam T.H.)
The paralytic man has dropped in death
   The crossing-sweeper’s brush to which he clung,
One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath,
   Although his hair was young.
I saw this year the winter vines of France,
   Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth—
Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance
   On long hills to the South.
Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long
   Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide.
And O his might, his sweet, his wine, his song,
   His stature, since he died!

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created April 9, 2001; not revised.