I

AlbaWHEN the nightingale to his mateSings day-long and night lateMy love and I keep stateIn bower,In flower,’Till the watchman on the towerCry:“Up! Thou rascal, Rise,I see the whiteLightAnd the nightFlies.”

Compleynt of a gentleman who has been waiting outside for some time

OPLASMATOUR and true celestial light,Lord powerful, engirdled all with might,Give my good-fellow aid in fools’ despiteWho stirs not forth this night,And day comes on.“Sst! my good fellow, art awake or sleeping?Sleep thou no more. I see the star upleapingThat hath the dawn in keeping,And day comes on!“Hi! Harry, hear me, for I sing arightSleep not thou now, I hear the bird in flightThat plaineth of the going of the night,And day comes on!“Come now! Old swenkin! Rise up, from thy bed,I see the signs upon the welkin spread,If thou come not, the cost be on thy head.And day comes on!“And here I am since going down of sun,And pray to God that is St. Mary’s son,To bring thee safe back, my companion.And day comes on.“And thou out here beneath the porch of stoneBadest me to see that a good watch was done,And now thou’lt none of me, and wilt have noneOf song of mine.”(Bass voice from within.)“Wait, my good fellow. For such joy I takeWith her venust and noblest to my makeTo hold embraced, and will not her forsakeFor yammer of the cuckold,Though day break.”(Girart Bornello.)

OPLASMATOUR and true celestial light,Lord powerful, engirdled all with might,Give my good-fellow aid in fools’ despiteWho stirs not forth this night,And day comes on.

“Sst! my good fellow, art awake or sleeping?Sleep thou no more. I see the star upleapingThat hath the dawn in keeping,And day comes on!

“Hi! Harry, hear me, for I sing arightSleep not thou now, I hear the bird in flightThat plaineth of the going of the night,And day comes on!

“Come now! Old swenkin! Rise up, from thy bed,I see the signs upon the welkin spread,If thou come not, the cost be on thy head.And day comes on!

“And here I am since going down of sun,And pray to God that is St. Mary’s son,To bring thee safe back, my companion.And day comes on.

“And thou out here beneath the porch of stoneBadest me to see that a good watch was done,And now thou’lt none of me, and wilt have noneOf song of mine.”

(Bass voice from within.)“Wait, my good fellow. For such joy I takeWith her venust and noblest to my makeTo hold embraced, and will not her forsakeFor yammer of the cuckold,Though day break.”(Girart Bornello.)

AvrilWHEN the springtime is sweetAnd the birds repeatTheir new song in the leaves,’Tis meetA man go where he will.But from where my heart is setNo message I get;My heart all wakes and grieves;DefeatOr luck, I must have my fill.Our love comes outLike the branch that turns aboutOn the top of the hawthorne,With frost and hail at nightSuffers despite’Till the sun come, and the green leaf on the bough.I remember the young dayWhen we set strife away,And she gave me such gesning,Her love and her ring:God grant I die not by any man’s stroke’Till I have my hand ’neath her cloak.I care not for their clamourWho have come between me and my charmer,For I know how words run loose,Big talk and little use.Spoilers of pleasure,We take their measure.(Guilhem de Peitieu.)

AvrilWHEN the springtime is sweetAnd the birds repeatTheir new song in the leaves,’Tis meetA man go where he will.

But from where my heart is setNo message I get;My heart all wakes and grieves;DefeatOr luck, I must have my fill.

Our love comes outLike the branch that turns aboutOn the top of the hawthorne,With frost and hail at nightSuffers despite’Till the sun come, and the green leaf on the bough.

I remember the young dayWhen we set strife away,And she gave me such gesning,Her love and her ring:God grant I die not by any man’s stroke’Till I have my hand ’neath her cloak.

I care not for their clamourWho have come between me and my charmer,For I know how words run loose,Big talk and little use.Spoilers of pleasure,We take their measure.(Guilhem de Peitieu.)

Descant on a Theme by Cerclamon

WHEN the sweet air goes bitter,And the cold birds twitterWhere the leaf falls from the twig,I sough and singthat Love goes outLeaving me no power to hold him.Of love I have naughtSave troubles and sad thought,And nothing is grievousas I desirous,Wanting only whatNo man can get or has got.With the noblest that stands in men’s sight,If all the world be in despiteI care not a glove.Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun;God give me life, and let my course run’Till I have her I loveTo lie with and prove.I do not live, nor cure me,Nor feel my ache—great as it is,For love will giveme no respite,Nor do I know when I turn left or rightnor when I go out.For in her is all my delightAnd all that can save me.I shake and burn and quiverFrom love, awake and in swevyn,Such fear I have she deliverme not from pain,Who know not how to ask her;Who can not.Two years, three years I seekAnd though I fear to speak out,Still she must know it.If she won’t have me now, Death is my portion,Would I had died that dayI came into her sway.God! How softly this kills!When her love look steals on me.Killed me she has, I know not how it was,For I would not look on a woman.Joy I have none, if she make me not madOr set me quiet, or bid me chatter.Good is it to me if she floutOr turn me inside out, and about.My ill doth she turn sweet.How swift it is.For I am traist and loose,I am true, or a liar,All vile, or all gentle,Or shaking between,as she desire,I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,The man whom love hadand has ever;Alas! who’er it please or pain,She can me retain.I am gone from one joy,From one I loved never so much,She by one touchReft me away;So doth bewilder meI can not say my saynor my desire,And when she looks on meIt seems to meI lose all wit and sense.The noblest girls men love’Gainst her I prize not as a gloveWorn and old.Though the whole world run rackAnd go dark with cloud,Light isWhere she stands,And a clamour loudin my ears.

WHEN the sweet air goes bitter,And the cold birds twitterWhere the leaf falls from the twig,I sough and singthat Love goes outLeaving me no power to hold him.

Of love I have naughtSave troubles and sad thought,And nothing is grievousas I desirous,Wanting only whatNo man can get or has got.

With the noblest that stands in men’s sight,If all the world be in despiteI care not a glove.Where my love is, there is a glitter of sun;God give me life, and let my course run’Till I have her I loveTo lie with and prove.

I do not live, nor cure me,Nor feel my ache—great as it is,For love will giveme no respite,Nor do I know when I turn left or rightnor when I go out.For in her is all my delightAnd all that can save me.

I shake and burn and quiverFrom love, awake and in swevyn,Such fear I have she deliverme not from pain,Who know not how to ask her;Who can not.Two years, three years I seekAnd though I fear to speak out,Still she must know it.

If she won’t have me now, Death is my portion,Would I had died that dayI came into her sway.God! How softly this kills!When her love look steals on me.Killed me she has, I know not how it was,For I would not look on a woman.

Joy I have none, if she make me not madOr set me quiet, or bid me chatter.Good is it to me if she floutOr turn me inside out, and about.My ill doth she turn sweet.How swift it is.For I am traist and loose,I am true, or a liar,All vile, or all gentle,Or shaking between,as she desire,I, Cerclamon, sorry and glad,The man whom love hadand has ever;Alas! who’er it please or pain,She can me retain.

I am gone from one joy,From one I loved never so much,She by one touchReft me away;So doth bewilder meI can not say my saynor my desire,And when she looks on meIt seems to meI lose all wit and sense.

The noblest girls men love’Gainst her I prize not as a gloveWorn and old.Though the whole world run rackAnd go dark with cloud,Light isWhere she stands,And a clamour loudin my ears.

VergierIn orchard under the hawthorneShe has her lover till morn,Till the traist man cry out to warnThem. God how swift the night,And day comes on.O Plasmatour, that thou end not the night,Nor take my belovéd from my sight,Nor I, nor tower-man, look on daylight,’Fore God, How swift the night,And day comes on.“Lovely thou art, to hold me close and kisst,Now cry the birds out, in the meadow mist,Despite the cuckold, do thou as thou list,So swiftly goes the nightAnd day comes on.“My pretty boy, make we our play againHere in the orchard where the birds complain,’Till the traist watcher his song unrein,Ah God! How swift the nightAnd day comes on.”“Out of the wind that blows from her,That dancing and gentle is and Thereby pleasanter,Have I drunk a draught, sweeter than scent of myrrh.Ah God! How swift the night.And day comes on.”Venust the lady, and none lovelier,For her great beauty, many men look on her,Out of my love will her heart not stir.By God, how swift the night.And day comes on.

VergierIn orchard under the hawthorneShe has her lover till morn,Till the traist man cry out to warnThem. God how swift the night,And day comes on.

O Plasmatour, that thou end not the night,Nor take my belovéd from my sight,Nor I, nor tower-man, look on daylight,’Fore God, How swift the night,And day comes on.

“Lovely thou art, to hold me close and kisst,Now cry the birds out, in the meadow mist,Despite the cuckold, do thou as thou list,So swiftly goes the nightAnd day comes on.

“My pretty boy, make we our play againHere in the orchard where the birds complain,’Till the traist watcher his song unrein,Ah God! How swift the nightAnd day comes on.”

“Out of the wind that blows from her,That dancing and gentle is and Thereby pleasanter,Have I drunk a draught, sweeter than scent of myrrh.Ah God! How swift the night.And day comes on.”

Venust the lady, and none lovelier,For her great beauty, many men look on her,Out of my love will her heart not stir.By God, how swift the night.And day comes on.

CanzonIONLY, and who elrische pain supportKnow out love’s heart o’erborne by overlove,For my desire that is so firm and straightAnd unchanged since I found her in my sightAnd unturned since she came within my glance,That far from her my speech springs up aflame;Near her comes not. So press the words to arrest it.I am blind to others, and their retortI hear not. In her alone, I see, move,Wonder.... And jest not. And the words dilateNot truth; but mouth speaks not the heart outright:I could not walk roads, flats, dales, hills, by chance,To find charm’s sum within one single frameAs God hath set in her t’assay and test it.And I have passed in many a goodly courtTo find in hers more charm than rumour thereof ...In solely hers. Measure and sense to mate,Youth and beauty learned in all delight,Gentrice did nurse her up, and so advanceHer fair beyond all reach of evil fame,To clear her worth, no shadow hath oppresst it.Her contact flats not out, falls not off short....Let her, I pray, guess out the sense hereofFor never will it stand in open prateUntil my inner heart stand in daylight,So that heart pools him when her eyes entrance,As never doth the Rhone, fulled and untame,Pool, where the freshest tumult hurl to crest it.Flimsy another’s joy, false and distort,No paregale that she springs not above ...Her love-touch by none other mensurate.To have it not? Alas! Though the pains biteDeep, torture is but galzeardy and dance,For in my thought my lust hath touched his aim.God! Shall I get no more! No fact to best it!No delight I, from now, in dance or sport,Nor will these toys a tinkle of pleasure prove,Compared to her, whom no loud profligateShall leak abroad how much she makes my right.Is this too much? If she count not mischanceWhat I have said, then no. But if she blame,Then tear ye out the tongue that hath expresst it.The song begs you: Count not this speech ill chance,But if you count the song worth your acclaim,Arnaut cares lyt who praise or who contest it.(Arnaut Daniel, a. d. about 1190.)

I am blind to others, and their retortI hear not. In her alone, I see, move,Wonder.... And jest not. And the words dilateNot truth; but mouth speaks not the heart outright:I could not walk roads, flats, dales, hills, by chance,To find charm’s sum within one single frameAs God hath set in her t’assay and test it.

And I have passed in many a goodly courtTo find in hers more charm than rumour thereof ...In solely hers. Measure and sense to mate,Youth and beauty learned in all delight,Gentrice did nurse her up, and so advanceHer fair beyond all reach of evil fame,To clear her worth, no shadow hath oppresst it.

Her contact flats not out, falls not off short....Let her, I pray, guess out the sense hereofFor never will it stand in open prateUntil my inner heart stand in daylight,So that heart pools him when her eyes entrance,As never doth the Rhone, fulled and untame,Pool, where the freshest tumult hurl to crest it.

Flimsy another’s joy, false and distort,No paregale that she springs not above ...Her love-touch by none other mensurate.To have it not? Alas! Though the pains biteDeep, torture is but galzeardy and dance,For in my thought my lust hath touched his aim.God! Shall I get no more! No fact to best it!

No delight I, from now, in dance or sport,Nor will these toys a tinkle of pleasure prove,Compared to her, whom no loud profligateShall leak abroad how much she makes my right.Is this too much? If she count not mischanceWhat I have said, then no. But if she blame,Then tear ye out the tongue that hath expresst it.

The song begs you: Count not this speech ill chance,But if you count the song worth your acclaim,Arnaut cares lyt who praise or who contest it.(Arnaut Daniel, a. d. about 1190.)

Mr. StyraxMR. HECATOMB STYRAX, the owner of a large estateand of large muscles,A “blue” and a climber of mountains, has marriedat the age of 28,He being at that age a virgin,The term “virgo” being made male in mediaeval latinity;His ineptitudesHave driven his wife from one religious excess to another.She has abandoned the vicarFor he was lacking in vehemence;She is now the high-priestessOf a modern and ethical cult,And even now Mr. StyraxDoes not believe in aesthetics.

His brother has taken to gipsies,But the son-in-law of Mr. H. StyraxObjects to perfumed cigarettes.In the parlance of Niccolo Macchiavelli,“Thus things proceed in their circle”;And thus the empire is maintained.

ClaraAT sixteen she was a potential celebrityWith a distaste for caresses.She now writes to me from a convent;Her life is obscure and troubled;Her second husband will not divorce her;Her mind is, as ever, uncultivated,And no issue presents itself.She does not desire her children,Or any more children.Her ambition is vague and indefinite,She will neither stay in, nor come out.

SoiréeUPON learning that the mother wrote verses,And that the father wrote verses,And that the youngest son was in a publisher’s office,And that the friend of the second daughterwas undergoing a novel,The young American pilgrimExclaimed:“This is a darn’d clever bunch!”

Sketch 48 b.IIAT the age of 27Its home mail is still opened by its maternal parentAnd its office mail may be opened byits parent of the opposite gender.It is an officer,and a gentleman,and an architect.

“Nodier raconte ...”AT a friend of my wife’s there is a photograph,A faded, pale, brownish photograph,Of the times when the sleeves were large,Silk, stiff and large above thelacertus,That is, the upper arm,And décolleté....It is a lady,She sits at a harp,Playing,And by her left foot, in a basket,Is an infant, aged about 14 months,The infant beams at the parent,The parent re-beams at its offspring.The basket is lined with satin,There is a satin-like bow on the harp.

And by her left foot, in a basket,Is an infant, aged about 14 months,The infant beams at the parent,The parent re-beams at its offspring.The basket is lined with satin,There is a satin-like bow on the harp.

And in the home of the novelistThere is a satin-like bow on an harp.You enter and pass hall after hall,Conservatory follows conservatory,Lilies lift their white symbolical cups,Whence their symbolical pollen has been excerpted,Near them I noticed an harpAnd the blue satin ribbon,And the copy of “Hatha Yoga”And the neat piles of unopened, unopening books,And she spoke to me of the monarch,And of the purity of her soul.

And in the home of the novelistThere is a satin-like bow on an harp.

You enter and pass hall after hall,Conservatory follows conservatory,Lilies lift their white symbolical cups,Whence their symbolical pollen has been excerpted,Near them I noticed an harpAnd the blue satin ribbon,And the copy of “Hatha Yoga”And the neat piles of unopened, unopening books,

And she spoke to me of the monarch,And of the purity of her soul.

SteleAFTER years of continencehe hurled himself into a sea of six women.Now, quenched as the brand of Meleagar,he lies by the poluphloisboious sea-coast.παραἀ ΘῘνα Πολοϕλοίσβοιο Θαλἀσσης.Siste Viator.

SteleAFTER years of continencehe hurled himself into a sea of six women.Now, quenched as the brand of Meleagar,he lies by the poluphloisboious sea-coast.

παραἀ ΘῘνα Πολοϕλοίσβοιο Θαλἀσσης.

Siste Viator.

I VecchiiTHEY will come no more,The old men with beautiful manners.Il était comme un tout petit garçonWith his blouse full of applesAnd sticking out all the way round;Blagueur! “Con gli occhi onesti e tardi,”And he said:“Oh! Abelard,” as if the topicWere much too abstruse for his comprehension,And he talked about “the Great Mary,”And said: “Mr. Pound is shocked at my levity,”When it turned out he meant Mrs. Ward.And the other was rather like my bust by Gaudier,Or like a real Texas colonel,He said: “Why flay dead horses?“There was once a man called Voltaire.”And he said they used to cheer Verdi,In Rome, after the opera,And the guards couldn’t stop them,And that was an anagram for VittorioEmanuele Re D’ Italia,And the guards couldn’t stop them.Old men with beautiful manners,Sitting in the Row of a morning;Walking on the Chelsea Embankment.

I VecchiiTHEY will come no more,The old men with beautiful manners.

Il était comme un tout petit garçonWith his blouse full of applesAnd sticking out all the way round;Blagueur! “Con gli occhi onesti e tardi,”

And he said:“Oh! Abelard,” as if the topicWere much too abstruse for his comprehension,And he talked about “the Great Mary,”And said: “Mr. Pound is shocked at my levity,”When it turned out he meant Mrs. Ward.

And the other was rather like my bust by Gaudier,Or like a real Texas colonel,He said: “Why flay dead horses?“There was once a man called Voltaire.”

And he said they used to cheer Verdi,In Rome, after the opera,And the guards couldn’t stop them,

And that was an anagram for VittorioEmanuele Re D’ Italia,And the guards couldn’t stop them.

Old men with beautiful manners,Sitting in the Row of a morning;Walking on the Chelsea Embankment.

RitrattoAND she said:“You remember Mr. Lowell,“He was your ambassador here?”And I said: “That was before I arrived.”And she said:“He stomped into my bedroom....(By that time she had got on to Browning.)“ ... stomped into my bedroom....“And said: ‘Do I,“ ‘I ask you, Do I“ ‘Care too much for society dinners?’“And I wouldn’t say that he didn’t.“Shelley used to live in this house.”She was a very old lady,I never saw her again.

She was a very old lady,I never saw her again.

(LIFE AND CONTACTS)

“Vocat æstus in umbram”Nemesianus Ec. IV.

FOR three years, out of key with his time,He strove to resuscitate the dead artOf poetry; to maintain “the sublime”In the old sense. Wrong from the start—No, hardly but, seeing he had been bornIn a half savage country, out of date;Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;Capaneus; trout for factitious bait;Ἵδυεν λάρ τοι πάνθ’, ὃς’ ἐνἰ ΤροίηCaught in the unstopped ear;Giving the rocks small lee-wayThe chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.His true Penelope was Flaubert,He fished by obstinate isles;Observed the elegance of Circe’s hairRather than the mottoes on sun-dials.Unaffected by “the march of events,”He passed from men’s memory inl’an trentiesmeDe son eage; the case presentsNo adjunct to the Muses’ diadem.

FOR three years, out of key with his time,He strove to resuscitate the dead artOf poetry; to maintain “the sublime”In the old sense. Wrong from the start—

No, hardly but, seeing he had been bornIn a half savage country, out of date;Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;Capaneus; trout for factitious bait;

Ἵδυεν λάρ τοι πάνθ’, ὃς’ ἐνἰ ΤροίηCaught in the unstopped ear;Giving the rocks small lee-wayThe chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.

His true Penelope was Flaubert,He fished by obstinate isles;Observed the elegance of Circe’s hairRather than the mottoes on sun-dials.

Unaffected by “the march of events,”He passed from men’s memory inl’an trentiesmeDe son eage; the case presentsNo adjunct to the Muses’ diadem.

THE age demanded an imageOf its accelerated grimace,Something for the modern stage,Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;Not, not certainly, the obscure reveriesOf the inward gaze;Better mendacitiesThan the classics in paraphrase!The “age demanded” chiefly a mould in plaster,Made with no loss of time,A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabasterOr the “sculpture” of rhyme.

THE age demanded an imageOf its accelerated grimace,Something for the modern stage,Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;

Not, not certainly, the obscure reveriesOf the inward gaze;Better mendacitiesThan the classics in paraphrase!

The “age demanded” chiefly a mould in plaster,Made with no loss of time,A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabasterOr the “sculpture” of rhyme.

THE tea-rose tea-gown, etc.Supplants the mousseline of Cos,The pianola “replaces”Sappho’s barbitos.Christ follows Dionysus,Phallic and ambrosialMade way for macerations;Caliban casts out Ariel.All things are a flowing,Sage Heracleitus says;But a tawdry cheapnessShall outlast our days.Even the Christian beautyDefects—after Samothrace;We see τὀ καλόνDecreed in the market place.Faun’s flesh is not to us,Nor the saint’s vision.We have the press for wafer;Franchise for circumcision.All men, in law, are equals.Free of Peisistratus,We choose a knave or an eunuchTo rule over us.O bright Apollo,τίν’ ἀνδρα, τίν’ ήρωά, τίνα θεὀν,Shall I place a tin wreath upon!

THE tea-rose tea-gown, etc.Supplants the mousseline of Cos,The pianola “replaces”Sappho’s barbitos.

Christ follows Dionysus,Phallic and ambrosialMade way for macerations;Caliban casts out Ariel.

All things are a flowing,Sage Heracleitus says;But a tawdry cheapnessShall outlast our days.

Even the Christian beautyDefects—after Samothrace;We see τὀ καλόνDecreed in the market place.

Faun’s flesh is not to us,Nor the saint’s vision.We have the press for wafer;Franchise for circumcision.

All men, in law, are equals.Free of Peisistratus,We choose a knave or an eunuchTo rule over us.

O bright Apollo,τίν’ ἀνδρα, τίν’ ήρωά, τίνα θεὀν,Shall I place a tin wreath upon!

THESE fought in any case,and some believing, pro domo, in any case ...Some quick to arm,some for adventure,some from fear of weakness,some from fear of censure,some for love of slaughter, in imagination,learning later ...some in fear, learning love of slaughter;Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor” ...walked eye-deep in hellbelieving in old men’s lies, then unbelievingcame home, home to a lie,home to many deceits,home to old lies and new infamy;usury age-old and age-thickand liars in public places.Daring as never before, wastage as never before.Young blood and high blood,Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;fortitude as never beforefrankness as never before,disillusions as never told in the old days,hysterias, trench confessions,laughter out of dead bellies.

THESE fought in any case,and some believing, pro domo, in any case ...

Some quick to arm,some for adventure,some from fear of weakness,some from fear of censure,some for love of slaughter, in imagination,learning later ...

some in fear, learning love of slaughter;Died some pro patria, non dulce non et decor” ...walked eye-deep in hellbelieving in old men’s lies, then unbelievingcame home, home to a lie,home to many deceits,home to old lies and new infamy;usury age-old and age-thickand liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.Young blood and high blood,Fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,disillusions as never told in the old days,hysterias, trench confessions,laughter out of dead bellies.

THERE died a myriad,And of the best, among them,For an old bitch gone in the teeth,For a botched civilization,Charm, smiling at the good mouth,Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,For two gross of broken statues,For a few thousand battered books.

THERE died a myriad,And of the best, among them,For an old bitch gone in the teeth,For a botched civilization,

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,

For two gross of broken statues,For a few thousand battered books.

GLADSTONE was still respected,When John Ruskin produced“Kings’ Treasuries”; SwinburneAnd Rossetti still abused.Fœtid Buchanan lifted up his voiceWhen that faun’s head of hersBecame a pastime forPainters and adulterers.The Burne-Jones cartonsHave preserved her eyes;Still, at the Tate, they teachCophetua to rhapsodize;Thin like brook-water,With a vacant gaze.The English Rubaiyat was still-bornIn those days.The thin, clear gaze, the sameStill darts out faun-like from the half-ruin’d face,Questing and passive....“Ah, poor Jenny’s case” ...Bewildered that a worldShows no surpriseAt her last maquero’sAdulteries.

GLADSTONE was still respected,When John Ruskin produced“Kings’ Treasuries”; SwinburneAnd Rossetti still abused.

Fœtid Buchanan lifted up his voiceWhen that faun’s head of hersBecame a pastime forPainters and adulterers.

The Burne-Jones cartonsHave preserved her eyes;Still, at the Tate, they teachCophetua to rhapsodize;

Thin like brook-water,With a vacant gaze.The English Rubaiyat was still-bornIn those days.

The thin, clear gaze, the sameStill darts out faun-like from the half-ruin’d face,Questing and passive....“Ah, poor Jenny’s case” ...

Bewildered that a worldShows no surpriseAt her last maquero’sAdulteries.

AMONG the pickled fœtuses and bottled bones,Engaged in perfecting the catalogue,I found the last scion of theSenatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog.For two hours he talked of Gallifet;Of Dowson; of the Rhymers’ Club;Told me how Johnson (Lionel) diedBy falling from a high stool in a pub ...But showed no trace of alcoholAt the autopsy, privately performed—Tissue preserved—the pure mindArose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed.Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels;Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbuedWith raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church.So spoke the author of “The Dorian Mood,”M. Verog, out of step with the decade,Detached from his contemporaries,Neglected by the young,Because of these reveries.

AMONG the pickled fœtuses and bottled bones,Engaged in perfecting the catalogue,I found the last scion of theSenatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog.

For two hours he talked of Gallifet;Of Dowson; of the Rhymers’ Club;Told me how Johnson (Lionel) diedBy falling from a high stool in a pub ...

But showed no trace of alcoholAt the autopsy, privately performed—Tissue preserved—the pure mindArose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed.

Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels;Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbuedWith raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church.So spoke the author of “The Dorian Mood,”

M. Verog, out of step with the decade,Detached from his contemporaries,Neglected by the young,Because of these reveries.

THEsky-like limpid eyes,The circular infant’s face,The stiffness from spats to collarNever relaxing into grace;The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years,Showed only when the daylight fellLevel across the faceOf Brennbaum “The Impeccable.”

IN the cream gilded cabin of his steam yachtMr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewerDangers of delay. “Consider“Carefully the reviewer.“I was as poor as you are;“When I began I got, of course,“Advance on royalties, fifty at first,” said Mr. Nixon,“Follow me, and take a column,“Even if you have to work free.“Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred“I rose in eighteen months;“The hardest nut I had to crack“Was Dr. Dundas.“I never mentioned a man but with the view“Of selling my own works.“The tip’s a good one, as for literature“It gives no man a sinecure.“And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece.“And give up verse, my boy,“There’s nothing in it.”. . . . . . . . . .Likewise a friend of Bloughram’s once advised me:Don’t kick against the pricks,Accept opinion. The “Nineties” tried your gameAnd died, there’s nothing in it.

IN the cream gilded cabin of his steam yachtMr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewerDangers of delay. “Consider“Carefully the reviewer.

“I was as poor as you are;“When I began I got, of course,“Advance on royalties, fifty at first,” said Mr. Nixon,“Follow me, and take a column,“Even if you have to work free.

“Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred“I rose in eighteen months;“The hardest nut I had to crack“Was Dr. Dundas.

“I never mentioned a man but with the view“Of selling my own works.“The tip’s a good one, as for literature“It gives no man a sinecure.

“And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece.“And give up verse, my boy,“There’s nothing in it.”. . . . . . . . . .Likewise a friend of Bloughram’s once advised me:Don’t kick against the pricks,Accept opinion. The “Nineties” tried your gameAnd died, there’s nothing in it.

BENEATH the sagging roofThe stylist has taken shelter,Unpaid, uncelebrated,At last from the world’s welterNature receives him,With a placid and uneducated mistressHe exercises his talentsAnd the soil meets his distress.The haven from sophistications and contentionsLeaks through its thatch;He offers succulent cooking;The door has a creaking latch.

BENEATH the sagging roofThe stylist has taken shelter,Unpaid, uncelebrated,At last from the world’s welter

Nature receives him,With a placid and uneducated mistressHe exercises his talentsAnd the soil meets his distress.

The haven from sophistications and contentionsLeaks through its thatch;He offers succulent cooking;The door has a creaking latch.

CONSERVATRIX of Milésien”Habits of mind and feeling,Possibly. But in EalingWith the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen?No, “Milésian” is an exaggeration.No instinct has survived in herOlder than those her grandmotherTold her would fit her station.

CONSERVATRIX of Milésien”Habits of mind and feeling,Possibly. But in EalingWith the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen?

No, “Milésian” is an exaggeration.No instinct has survived in herOlder than those her grandmotherTold her would fit her station.

DAPHNE with her thighs in barkStretches toward me her leafy hands,”—Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-roomI await The Lady Valentine’s commands,Knowing my coat has never beenOf precisely the fashionTo stimulate, in her,A durable passion;Doubtful, somewhat, of the valueOf well-gowned approbationOf literary effort,But never of The Lady Valentine’s vocation:Poetry, her border of ideas,The edge, uncertain, but a means of blendingWith other strataWhere the lower and higher have ending;A hook to catch the Lady Jane’s attention,A modulation toward the theatre,Also, in the case of revolution,A possible friend and comforter.. . . . . . . . . .Conduct, on the other hand, the soul“Which the highest cultures have nourished”To Fleet St. whereDr. Johnson flourished;Beside this thoroughfareThe sale of half-hose hasLong since superseded the cultivationOf Pierian roses.

DAPHNE with her thighs in barkStretches toward me her leafy hands,”—Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-roomI await The Lady Valentine’s commands,

Knowing my coat has never beenOf precisely the fashionTo stimulate, in her,A durable passion;

Doubtful, somewhat, of the valueOf well-gowned approbationOf literary effort,But never of The Lady Valentine’s vocation:

Poetry, her border of ideas,The edge, uncertain, but a means of blendingWith other strataWhere the lower and higher have ending;

A hook to catch the Lady Jane’s attention,A modulation toward the theatre,Also, in the case of revolution,A possible friend and comforter.. . . . . . . . . .Conduct, on the other hand, the soul“Which the highest cultures have nourished”To Fleet St. whereDr. Johnson flourished;

Beside this thoroughfareThe sale of half-hose hasLong since superseded the cultivationOf Pierian roses.

GO, dumb-born book,Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes;Hadst thou but songAs thou hast subjects known,Then were there cause in thee that should condoneEven my faults that heavy upon me lieAnd build her glories their longevity.Tell her that shedsSuch treasure in the air,Reeking naught else but that her graces giveLife to the moment,I would bid them liveAs roses might, in magic amber laid,Red overwrought with orange and all madeOne substance and one colourBraving time.Tell her that goesWith song upon her lipsBut sings not out the song, nor knowsThe maker of it, some other mouth,May be as fair as hers,Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,When our two dusts with Waller’s shall be laid,Siftings on siftings in oblivion,Till change hath broken downAll things save Beauty alone.

Tell her that shedsSuch treasure in the air,Reeking naught else but that her graces giveLife to the moment,I would bid them liveAs roses might, in magic amber laid,Red overwrought with orange and all madeOne substance and one colourBraving time.

Tell her that goesWith song upon her lipsBut sings not out the song, nor knowsThe maker of it, some other mouth,May be as fair as hers,Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,When our two dusts with Waller’s shall be laid,Siftings on siftings in oblivion,Till change hath broken downAll things save Beauty alone.

TURNED from the “eau-fortePar Jaquemart”To the strait headOf Messalina:“His true PenelopeWas Flaubert,”And his toolThe engraver’s.Firmness,Not the full smile,His art, but an artIn profile;ColourlessPier Francesca,Pisanello lacking the skillTo forge Achaia.

TURNED from the “eau-fortePar Jaquemart”To the strait headOf Messalina:

“His true PenelopeWas Flaubert,”And his toolThe engraver’s.

Firmness,Not the full smile,His art, but an artIn profile;

ColourlessPier Francesca,Pisanello lacking the skillTo forge Achaia.

“Qu’est ce qu’ils savent de l’amour, etqu’est ce qu’ils peuvent comprendre?S’ils ne comprennent pas la poèsie,s’ils ne sentent pas la musique, qu’est cequ’ils peuvent comprendre de cette passionen comparaison avec laquelle la roseest grossière et le parfum des violettes untonnerre?”CAID ALI

“Qu’est ce qu’ils savent de l’amour, etqu’est ce qu’ils peuvent comprendre?

S’ils ne comprennent pas la poèsie,s’ils ne sentent pas la musique, qu’est cequ’ils peuvent comprendre de cette passionen comparaison avec laquelle la roseest grossière et le parfum des violettes untonnerre?”CAID ALI

For three years, diabolus in the scale,He drank ambrosia,All passes, ANANGKE prevails,Came end, at last, to that Arcadia.He had moved amid her phantasmagoria,Amid her galaxies,NUKTIS AGALMA. . . . . . . . . .Drifted ... drifted precipitate,Asking time to be rid of....Of his bewilderment; to designateHis new found orchid....To be certain ... certain ...(Amid ærial flowers) ... time for arrangements—Drifted onTo the final estrangement;Unable in the supervening blanknessTo sift TO AGATHON from the chaffUntil he found his seive....Ultimately, his seismograph:—Given that is his “fundamental passion”This urge to convey the relationOf eye-lid and cheek-boneBy verbal manifestations;To present the seriesOf curious heads in medallion—He had passed, inconscient, full gaze,The wide-banded irisesAnd botticellian sprays impliedIn their diastasis;Which anæsthesis, noted a year late,And weighed, revealed his great affect,(Orchid), mandateOf Eros, a retrospect.. . .Mouths biting empty air,The still stone dogs,Caught in metamorphosis, wereLeft him as epilogues.

For three years, diabolus in the scale,He drank ambrosia,All passes, ANANGKE prevails,Came end, at last, to that Arcadia.

He had moved amid her phantasmagoria,Amid her galaxies,NUKTIS AGALMA. . . . . . . . . .Drifted ... drifted precipitate,Asking time to be rid of....Of his bewilderment; to designateHis new found orchid....

To be certain ... certain ...(Amid ærial flowers) ... time for arrangements—Drifted onTo the final estrangement;Unable in the supervening blanknessTo sift TO AGATHON from the chaffUntil he found his seive....Ultimately, his seismograph:

—Given that is his “fundamental passion”This urge to convey the relationOf eye-lid and cheek-boneBy verbal manifestations;

To present the seriesOf curious heads in medallion—

He had passed, inconscient, full gaze,The wide-banded irisesAnd botticellian sprays impliedIn their diastasis;

Which anæsthesis, noted a year late,And weighed, revealed his great affect,(Orchid), mandateOf Eros, a retrospect.. . .Mouths biting empty air,The still stone dogs,Caught in metamorphosis, wereLeft him as epilogues.

Vide Poem II. Page 54

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