'Tis the sea—calm surface.—And the great tide Draws growling off with vain recurrent dabs: Come murmuring in, the wave will not abide. Do you hear the scratching of the night-crabs? 'Tis the drained Styx. Ragpicker Diogenes, Lantern in hand, arrives there on good terms. Along the dark flow, perverted poets please To fish; their hollow skulls hold the worms. 'Tis the field: to glean the few foul scraps Hideous harpies pounce in whirling flight. The guttersnipe at the luckless rover snaps And flees the bluecoats, harvesters of the night. 'Tis death: the police are laid. Love flaunts Abroad; the flesh of an arm is the banqueter's Feast, where the spent kiss in purple vaunts. The hour's alone. Listen. Not a dream stirs. 'Tis life: Listen, the live spring hymns Its eternal song over the slimy prize Of a sea-god stretching his nude green limbs On a bed of the Morgue—with staring eyes. |