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Conrad Potter Aiken - Shaemus
Work rating: Low

We will go no more to Shaemus, at the Nip, 
for sly innuendo and an Oporto Flip, 
the rough but tender voice, the wide-mouthed grin, 
the steady-unsteady hand that poured the gin: 


memory, that flew back years to find a name, 
found it, and fetched it up, still just the same; 
the shaky footsteps, and then the shaky kidding: 
you, the big business man, outbid, outbidding, 


the mystery man, the man of deep affairs, 
highbrow, and playboy, and friend of millionaires: 
and you, the lovers, whose love was in your faces— 
there you were, back once more—and still the traces!— 


Yes, still the traces of that love he loved, 
and re-examined, but as if unmoved; 
the names fished up from time, or Singapore, 
joined and repeated on his bar once more; 


as if no let or hindrance were permitted; 
as if both time and space could be outwitted; 
endurance noted—in a protocol— 
and then embalmed, of course, in alcohol. 


And now himself, the immortal, lightly gone, 
as if stepped out for a quick one—who had none. 
And dead, his room inspected by his friends, 
to find a will, adjust the odds and ends; 


and there, the fifteen suits, the malacca cane, 
the hats, and spats: in which he roved again, 
far from the furnished room, the sacred bar, 
immortal dandy, towards an immortal star.
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