It will not do Luigi
You in this fireless room
Tirelessly expounding
The sense of so much sound
As if to speak were rather
Those promenades in Rome
Where each cool eye plays moth
To flames largely its own
Than the resounding Latin
Catacomb or labyrinth
Corinthian overgrown
With French sphinx or the heated tones
Of all these quenched at nightfall
Yet sparkling on a lip
At whose mute call I turn
To certain other lessons hard to learn.
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