The World’s Tragedy

THE GREY NIGHT. I25 With me on either hand lie slain — Ah ! Never more to rise again ! — Virtue and beauty. Dark and dank, The low hill’s baked and barren bank ! There at my feet the glib scribe scrawls His flatulent gnostic caterwauls For gaping agapic festivals. By him the red-haired harlot sprawls, And the blotchy beast that suckled me Squats like a toad, and shamelessly Ogles the crowd of bystanders With those wicked glittering eyes of hers. Perched high above me the foul bird My father belches his lewd word, Triumphant in his scheme’s success That binds the globe in bitterness. Blithe, the hag and the baboon Frisk it to the tuneless tune Of a sow that drums upon A half-rotted skeleton. Round me stretch the busy lines Of architects at their designs — Brothels, jails and hospitals, Legislatures, arsenals,