As a Quixote I wish to be known!»
From his lifetime in full requisition
Deathless Quixote is tired out,
They multiply him by division —
But still Dulcinea doesn't count.
The mythical windmills are weaker
Than narcotics, politic tirades,
And little Don Quixotes wander
Through verse, like theatrical shades.
While out of inertia hammers
The firmament's spinning-wheel,
The windmills have died out, like mammoths,
And they've built no new ones, nor will.
And my sword in its sheath is rusting,
And there's no foolhardy attack…
Put out by the motor-cars rushing,
To the Zoo Rosinante's gone back.
For knights there are reservations,
Befitting the time and task.
But still to poor Senor Cervantes,
Like the others, I come and ask:
«Will you kindly lend me your windmill —
As a Quixote I wish to be known…»
But that's just a trifle, so little,
That to ask it is awkward, I own.
