On a Snow-Covered Satyr

Saudade-- a poem that brought to mind through the manifold perverse associations this little ditty from one of my long-time favorite authors

That is not dead which can eternal lie
and with strange aeons even death may die.

Yesterday, I exalted the poet in striving to reach a comparison, today, I bring him down from his lofty heights and compare him to. . . well, still one of my favorite authors--so I guess it isn't really a plunge.  And this doggerel is really not comparable to the poem you will enjoy if you click the link.

There is a disturbing and fascinating metrical irregularity to the poem that prevents it from falling into the sing-song while still suggesting (around the edges, as it were) a song.  

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