Little Poems in Prose

EPILOGUE Serene of heart I reached the mountain top and well From there could watch the city in her mag- nitude, Her brothels, pest-house, prison, purgatory, hell, Where like a flower flourishes all vicious brood. You well know, Satan, fount of soul- devouring harms, I went not there to shed vain tears in dolor- ous mood, But, like a shrewd old lecher in his woman’s arms, To drink deep of the lures of this lewd be- hemoth, Who keeps my youth aflame with necro- mantic charms. Whether past noon you’re still in bed, asth- matic, wroth And torpid, or quitting the dim haunt you inhabit, You prance in trailing veils of evening’s gold-spun cloth,