Millard Fillmore died here.
His round body is weighted by marble angels.
He lies among the great orators of the Iroquois.
Paint does not arrest the tradebook houses
In their elegant decay. They peel
Like lizards in the dying avenues of elm.
Gentle enough, night drifts
Above the yellow bursts of aspen in the park.
Something innocent and reptilian
Suffers here, cumbrously.
The souls of the wives of robber barons
Are imprisoned in the chandeliers.
~ Robert Hass
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