Some Poynter, lift the thing aloft,
Announce a Morice, see you fling
‘Your soul on knees in fervid praise :-—
If so—O4, Lilith! runs the phrase,
Now, is no barb upon the dart?
Now, little lady, What ofart?
v
‘Moreover (just a word) this chance
T fling you over space—for luck!
‘This Scotland yet may catch your France,
‘My crow grow germane to your cluck.
See art: see truth
as I who see,
(Am wellnigh fallen in the fight!)
‘Then the last lie, duality,
‘May break before the victor sight.
‘Then, and then only, That, Sweet hours
Of trivial passion deep as death,
‘Ye are past: I face the solemn powers
Of sex and soul, of brain and breath.
For you I lift the veil: discover
‘The actual, for I was your lover.
What should such word imply? I showed