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.