The Death of Allegory

The Death of Allegory


I am wondering what became
of all those tall abstractions
that used to pose, robed and statuesque,
in paintings and parade about on the pages
of the Renaissance
displaying their capital letters
like license plates.

Truth cantering on a powerful horse,
Chastity, eyes downcast,
fluttering with veils.
Each one was marble come to life,
a thought in a coat,
Courtesy bowing with one hand
always extended,

Villainy sharpening an instrument
behind a wall,
Reason with her crown and
Constancy alert behind a helm.
They are all retired now,
consigned to a Florida for tropes.
Justice is there standing
by an open refrigerator.

Valor lies in bed listening to the rain.
Even Death has nothing to do
but mend his cloak and hood,
and all their props are locked away
in a warehouse, hourglasses, globes,
blindfolds and shackles.

Even if you called them back,
there are no places left
for them to go, no Garden of Mirth
or Bower of Bliss.
The Valley of Forgiveness
is lined with condominiums
and chain saws are howling
in the Forest of Despair.

Here on the table near the window
is a vase of peonies
and next to it black binoculars
and a money clip,
exactly the kind of thing we now prefer,
objects that sit quietly
on a line in lower case,

themselves and nothing more,
a wheelbarrow, an empty mailbox,
a razor blade resting in a glass ashtray.
As for the others,
the great ideas on horseback
and the long-haired virtues
in embroidered gowns,

it looks as though they have traveled
down that road you see on the final page
of storybooks,
the one that winds up a green hillside
and disappears into an unseen valley
where everyone must be fast asleep.


Billy Collins

Posted over on Poetry Foundation