VII

“The little spark within the heart of man.

How should you know the desperate clutch of fingers

That feel the moment slipping, feel the dear

Infrequent moment slipping as it lingers,

The flaming hour ironic in its fleetness,

The rush of vision swift beyond belief?

Near, as the dead to the incredulous living;

So dead, the heart is rigid with its grief.

What would you offer me as compensation

After your sloth had blanketed my fire?

Your deepest peace, satiety Lethean;

Your aim, diversion; and your spur, desire.

Tragic, or merry, be the body’ s passion,

Ordained or gay; not, not the sordid mean!

Your soul’ s a skinny waif, that was not driven

To sin, but sought small solaces unclean.

You struck no fire from flint; you neither knew

Fasting nor feasting; vigour, nor a kiss;

The silk pavilioned bed of Aphrodite,

Or woodland hardihood of Artemis.