Imperator Augustus
Is this the man by whose decree abide
The lives of countless nations, with the trace
Of fresh tears wet upon the hard, cold face?
He wept because a little child had died.
They set a marble image by his side,
A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase;
It wore the dead boy’s features, and the grace
Of pretty ways that were the old man’s pride.
And so he smiled, grown softer now, and tired
Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy
Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head,
The smooth, round curls so strongly like the dead,
To kiss the white lips of his marble boy,
And call by name his little heart’s-desired.