1912 · CLOSE READING
Sir Palamedes
Sir Palamedes (1912), PDF p. 87
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XXXI
From God's sweet air Sir Palamede
Hath come unto a demon bog,
A city where but rats may breed
In sewer-stench and fetid fog.
Within its heart pale phantoms crawl.
Breathless with foolish haste they jog
And jostle, all for naught! They scrawl
Vain things all night that they disown
Ere day. They call and bawl and squall
Hoarse cries; they moan, they groan. A stone
Hath better sense! And these among
A cabbage-headed god they own,
With wandering eye and jabbering tongue.
He, rotting in that grimy sewer
And charnel-house of death and dung,
Shrieks : “ How the air is sweet and pure!
Give me the entrails of a frog
And I will teach thee! Lo! the lure
F 81
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