IN MEMORY OF V.R.LANG (1924-1956)

I wore this very dress

The night that Virgil died.

I was there and I remember the brown brocade

With pearls like tears gleaming on the bodice.

We lounged at court, at ease, on lavender cushions,

Toasting Augustus, when Maecenas brought the news.

I remember you held his wrinkled ringless hands,

Avoiding relevant words. He looked like Death.

You rose to depart, draped like an autumn goddess,

The jewel I gave you burning at your throat,

And fainted. I caught you as you drifted down.

But, you were no friend to Virgil, wrote him no poems.

The hurt was deeper. Once we stood in the Forum

And stared at a pompous hearse. Your beautiful eyes,

Full of the tears of the ages, said everything dies.