The Winged Beetle

138 ROSA DECIDUA Of life that spring in me are fed Not even on the more of her decay. They spring from other roots. Now I am cleansed of her, I am so to say A man part paralysed. One limb is dead In feeling as in motion. This remains To ask : Will all catch death—how soon ? This head Excites its miserable brains To think the word it knows by intellect To be the right word—pity ! Then reflect : “ Pitiful ! Pitiful ! most pitiful ! The pity of it ! Think of the love past, Blossoms too beautiful ! Think of the hardships conquered comrade-wise ! Think of the babe and its most piteous end ! ” —All these things sound like lies. I do not comprehend Anything of them—“ Pity ! pity ! pity ! ” ’Tis like the dripping of some stagnant rain From the housetops of a ruined city Upon the flagstones. Not one petal clings Upon the stalk of life or memory. Stain Not one pale thought with blushes ; my soul’s dead As a corpse flung out of the tideway on The stinking flats of London mud. The springs Are dry beyond appeal ; dull grey like lead (And heavier) is my soul’s carrion. If she came pleasing now, pure passionate, and sane, I would not take her back again.