Even now more eloquent
than those long April twilights
we’ve spent with our American cousin,
where over and over the finest actor
of his time catches a spur on the bunting,
limps to the fresh horse waiting forever
by the backstage door and yet again
a nation mourns, pushes grimly on
through the centuries watching you ride
that stone throne, your face a country
of sharp angles where irony
meets sadness, staring out.