T.S. Eliot c. 1923
Eliot, old pre-beat hero,
lines cake-dense like new cake
crumbed and rolled about
heavy, heavy, until the eyes go heavy
and the mind goes bright like lead
under light.
Touched by death now, if not rhythm,
like a laughing-stock to the ars-poetica
(if not its finest pupil),
English all re-rolled and spun and lit,
untouched by Latin (and thus imbibed),
old friend descending, puzzled and puzzling.
Eliot, old bastion, odd not-forgotten,
with just reflections made unjust,
old crumbs condensed
into lines left on the table,
read or (mainly) eaten,
until the mind goes raw and can only be;
then you just...reflecting on a pond.