THE IDEAL FOUND WANTING.

I'm sick of clownery and Owlglass tricks;

Damn the whole crowd of you I I hate you all.

The same, night after night, from powdered stall

To sweating gallery, your faces fix

In flux an idiot mean. The Apteryx

You worship is no victory; you call

On old stupidity, God made to crawl

For tempting with world-wisdom's narcotics.

I'll break a window through my prison! See,

The sunset bleeds among the roofs; comes night,

Dark blue and calm as music dying out.

Is it escape? No, the laugh's turned on me!

I kicked at cardboard, gaped at red limelight;

You laughed and cheered my latest knockabout.