Vi
Still we can laugh at burgesses and churls
In our excess of agony and lust.
We pity these poor prudes, insipid girls
And tepid boys, these creatures of the dust.
We pity all these meal-mouthed montebanks
That prate of Jesus, ethics, faith and reason,
These jerry-built dyspeptics, stuccoed cranks,
Their lives one dreary plain, one moist dull season
Like their grey land. O costive crapulence !
They ache and strain within the water-closet
Of church and State, their shocked bleat ofoffence:
“ This poet’s life was such a failure’. Was it?
Fools! our worst boredom was a loftier thrill
Than alf you ever felt — or ever will.
122 —
Vil
If we are weary, it is flesh that faints.
We cannot bear such worlds of happiness.
Even in this torture that consumes and taints,
We writhe in bliss, one terrible caress
Of the great Gods of Hell. Ah! surely, dear,
Our way is wise, transcending human woe:
We are most happy and of great good cheer.
What do we know? It matters net. We know,
This is enough, that we have slain the Sphinx,
Worked out her wizardry, dissolved her doom;
And though her wine be death to him that drinks
We shall carouse for ever in the tomb.
We drank bull’s blood and all our pangs immense
Are better than eupeptic innocence.