Gods in the Gutter

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who in a cafe sat,

And one was small and crapulous, and one was large and fat;

And one was eaten up with vice and verminous at that.

The first he spoke of secret sins, and gems and perfumes rare;

And velvet cats and courtesans voluptuously fair:

“Who is the Sybarite?” I asked. They answered: “Baudelaire.”

The second talked in tapestries, by fantasy beguiled;

As frail as bubbles, hard as gems, his pageantries he piled;

“This Lord of Language, who is he?” They whispered “Oscar Wilde.”

The third was staring at his glass from out abysmal pain;

With tears his eyes were bitten in beneath his bulbous brain.

“Who is the sodden wretch?” I said. They told me: “Paul Verlaine.”

Oh, Wilde, Verlaine and Baudelaire, their lips were wet with wine;

Oh poseur, pimp and libertine! Oh cynic, sot and swine!

Oh votaries of velvet vice!... Oh gods of light divine!

Oh Baudelaire, Verlaine and Wilde, they knew the sinks of shame;

Their sun-aspiring wings they scorched at passion's altar flame;

Yet lo! enthroned, enskied they stand, Immortal Sons of Fame.

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who walked with feet of clay,

With cruel crosses on their backs, along a miry way;

Who climbed and climbed the bitter steep to which men turn and pray.