The World’s Tragedy

PROEM Master, I come. But ere the pregnant gloom Lighten at last, I ask myself for whom I take the pen, since English throbs and glows Forth from its gold, like streams from sunny snows. And if I write for England, who will read ? As if, when moons of Ramazan recede, Some fatuous angel-porter should deposit His perfect wine within the privy closet ! “ What do they know, who only England know ? ” Only what England paints its face to show. Love mummied and relabelled “ chaste affection, ” And lust excused as “ natural selection.” Caligula upbraids the cruel cabby, And Nero birches choir-boys in the Abbey ; Semiramis sandpapered to a simper, And Clytemaestra whittled to a whimper !