Christopher Renfrew, born too late. -
(“Soul of an Artist,” his mother said;)
Knocking humbly at Beauty’s Gate,
No one had told him that Beauty’s dead;
Listen, son, to the dismal fate
Of Christopher Renfrew, born too late.

Christopher Renfrew drank him deep,
Brackish water from ancient springs;
Climbed Olympus and found it steep,
Heard the flutter of Nike’s wings;
Said “Here’s a vigil I’ll gladly keep!”
As the Old Grey Gods lay fast asleep.

Christopher Renfrew, misplaced link,
Studied the Orders, and drew them well;
Rendered his shadows with Chinese ink,
Hearkened not to The Tolling Bell;
Went to Rome, and with aspect solemn,
Copied the letters from Trajan’s Column.

Christopher Renfrew never knew
That form must walk in the step of function;
“Truth is Beauty, and Beauty’s true,”
Is what he quoted, without compunction
Basked in the dusk of a kinder day,
And never heard tell of Le Corbusier.

Christopher Renfrew, young eclectic,
Trod sedately the classic way;
Using the Georgian Dialectic,
Scorning the Priests of a Later Day -
Christopher Renfrew didn’t hasten
To join the Faithful at Taliesin.

Christopher Renfrew woke one day,
And a veil was drawn from his jaded eyes;
A brilliant light had dispersed the grey,
And he looked around him with wild surprise;
Corner windows and thermopane,
Form and function in mad pursuit,
Lally Columns and overhangs,
All approved by The Institute, -
A Circular House by Fuller, (Bucky,)
A Spiral Gallery by Mr. Wright,
Christopher Renfrew, born unlucky,
Hid his eyes from the dreadful sight.

Christopher Renfrew, brain benumbed,
Laid him down on his tousled bed;
Darkest depths of despair he plumbed,
Crying “I know that Beauty’s dead!”
And clutching a Déspouy, too well thumbed,
The poor unfortunate guy succumbed.