Mr. ApollinaxWhen Mr. Apollinax visited the United StatesHis laughter tinkled among the teacups.I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,And of Priapus in the shrubberyGaping at the lady in the swing.In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’sHe laughed like an irresponsible foetus.His laughter was submarine and profoundLike the old man of the seatsHidden under coral islandsWhere worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,Dropping from fingers of surf.I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair,Or grinning over a screenWith seaweed in its hair.I heard the beat of centaurs’ hoofs over the hard turfAs his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.“He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”—“He has pointed ears ... he must be unbalanced,”—“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. CheetahI remember a slice of lemon and a bitten macaroon.
When Mr. Apollinax visited the United StatesHis laughter tinkled among the teacups.I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,And of Priapus in the shrubberyGaping at the lady in the swing.In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’sHe laughed like an irresponsible foetus.His laughter was submarine and profoundLike the old man of the seatsHidden under coral islandsWhere worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,Dropping from fingers of surf.I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair,Or grinning over a screenWith seaweed in its hair.I heard the beat of centaurs’ hoofs over the hard turfAs his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.“He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”—“He has pointed ears ... he must be unbalanced,”—“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. CheetahI remember a slice of lemon and a bitten macaroon.