CAVALIER POETS

“I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) of Heaven, and hope to have it after all”. From ‘The Argument of His Book’, Robert Herrick 1591–1674

The Seeds and Fruits of English Poetry, Ford Madox Brown (1821–1893) kept in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8679927

Your vernacular usage is privileged as the only discourse
suited now to the compulsory affirmation of mediocrity.
Democracy. That’s fair enough I suppose. S’far as it goes.
Will it gather to a greatness, like the ooze of oil?
Endless gold and land form the sinews of war,
let the welfare of the people be the ultimate law.
Yet, no one is so old that he cannot live one more year. Or two.
This night is electric, her heavy make-up presages a-new.
These Cavalier poets gathered on this stage put all heaven
In a rage. The simple demand that all people should be free?
Angels alone, that soar, above, enjoy such unfettered liberty.
To live in hell but sing of heaven is Cavalier freedom. See
a bracelet of golden hair about the bone is all that’s left of her,
Sir, I cannot see in your false democracy, anything to a-stir in me.