CHICAGO MAY
From A runs this one tale of lust and greed —
And yet you think men love you. Love, indeed1
Lie still, lie still, and let my heart run on
From hate to—love. I name the one pure word
‘That she blasphemes ; her life's Satyricon
Would taint all speech! Yet “love,” obscenely purred
From whiskered lips, stillsends my spi
To God from all this miry martyrdom.
‘There is a woman, true, fair, wise, and young,
Her soul one flame for art and song, her soul
Pure as the trilling musick of her tongue,
Her heart one flame—for me. The single goal
Of this great purgatory of mine is she.
God grant her hope to her, and mine to me!
fa)
‘Thou all-beholding sun, whose beams
Comfort the just and the unjust,
Wake me from all these evil dreams
Of this grey globe of greed and lust!
Ah ! that is less than naught to Thee
Which is the all, and more, to me!
This is my grief; nor God, nor man
Cares what thing earthly may befall.
True self conceives a subtler plan,
Nor heeds the changes in the All.