After Horace

After Horace

The gods listened, papa,
to my prayers, the gods did,—
the gods listened, papa.
For I am alone now, safe
from love, no longer harried
by fruitless feelings, longing
for faces dripping with love.
And my prayers for Phoenician
purples, papa, for yellows
like honey comb, papa, costly
silks and supple leathers go
unanswered, yet my deep ache
that goes for days without grace,
beauty, or joy has been seen.
The gods listen, papa, give
you what you most deserve:—
one might call it solitude.