James Merrill I

Free me, I pray, to go in search of joys Unembroidered by your high, soft voice, Along that stony path the senses pave.

The good grey guardians of art Patrol the halls on spongy shoes, Impartially protective, though Perhaps suspicious of Toulouse. Here dozes one against the wall, Disposed upon a funeral chair. A Degas dancer pirouettes Upon the parting of his hair.

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