The World’s Tragedy

THE GARDEN OF EROS. I9 Even to the uttermost silence that may be Even in this vast circuit of eternity. So, o my golden charioteer, I creep Into thine arms, and dream the dream of sleep. He sleeps. Upon the still beauty descends from his tree the man-vulture. THE VULTURE Yaugh Waugh ! Butch ! this is terrible That all these people should be happy — Pss ! — Without a thought of Me ! Ga ! Ga ! the plague Rot them in hell ! Cramp ! Ague ! Pox ! Gout ! Stone — Hoo ! What shall I do to stop it ? It’s sin — sin — sin. I hate them. Oog ! I want them to go groaning Over imaginary ills With white eyes twisted up to Me, Where I sit and croak And snarl ! Ugh ! Faugh ! I’m Yaugh Waugh ! I’m Yaugh Waugh !