Little Poems in Prose

EPILOGUE In happiness of heart I mount these heights Where I can watch my city hour by hour; Her hells and hospitals and bawdy light, Where every evil opens like a flower. You know, o Satan, lord of my grief unsung, I go not down to weep against your power, But like an old tramp in rotting dung Rather would I get drunk with this great whore Whose rank infernal charm preserves me young. And if in sheets obscure she still must snore, A bleary bitch, or like a young girl go Tripping in veils of evening, gold once more, I love you, o my city, in your woe, Sad capital, whose whores and bandits pluck Joys that your blind philistines never know. RALPH CHEEVER DUNNING.