A Man In Armor Is

Inscribe All Human Effort With One Word, Artistry's Haunting Curse, The Incomplete!

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

The Sad Rhyme Of The Men Who Proudly Clung To Their First Fault, And Withered In Their Pride.

What's A Man's Age? He Must Hurry More, That's All; Cram In A Day, What His Youth Took A Year To Hold.

Death: The Grand Perhaps.