Ernest Miller Hemingway

 Not Quite So Soon

  in the down-beds of grander times
  when Kings could call their shots,
  I rather imagine on days like this
  that concubines were alm,
  or the unspoiled genius
  or the chopping block.
  how about a partridge or a grouse
  or a bound behind the merry hounds?
  Maybe I’ll phone Saroyan in Malibu Creek

  or eat a slice of toast…
  the trees jiggle down September
  like dysentery, and churches sit on their
  corners and wait, and the streetcars are slow,
  and everywhere
  birds fly, cats walk, people ruefully
  exist…
  the charmers are gone, the armies have put down
  their arms,all the druid’s drunk, the horses have tossed
  their dice; there are no flames, the phone won’t ring,
  the factory’s closed, tenesmus, everything…
  I ween
  even the schizomycetes are sleeping;
  I think
  the horror of no action is highly
  than the scorch of pain; death is the
  barker, but things
  may get better
  yet. I’ll use the knives for scattering
  jam, and the gas to sizz-ling
  my greying love.