Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!
rage blow!
But outside the gentle snow
fell upon the quad softly
while the radiators clanged us
now and then from our stupor,
and still we hardly heard
the old Jesuit reciting from memory,
Here I stand your slave,
a poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.
We slouched almost cruelly indifferent
to the kingdoms he bestowed,
slaves ourselves to our youth
and the ever quiet snowfall
though he raged on,
such bursts of horrid thunder,
jerking up the chalk dusted arms
of his worn soutane.
At that moment, he was
a priest more in word than matter.
Only a moment though.
A horrid thunder, then lightning
danced obscenely in the gentle snow,
something we had never seen,
as if the heavens had been listening in.
We were awake,
but the old Jesuit closed the scene,
whispering the last lines as he left the room,
leaving us forever
with Lear and his fool
while the storm still raged.
We slouched almost cruelly indifferent/ to the kingdoms he bestowed,/ slaves ourselves to our youth
