IN speaking of 'aspiration,' From the recesses of a pen more dolorous than blackness, Were you presenting us with one more form of imperturbable French drollery, Or was it self directed banter? Habitual ennui Took from you, your invisible hot helmet of anæmia While you were filling your little glass from the decanter Of a transparent-murky, would-be-truthful "hobohemia"— And then facetiously Went off with it? Your soul's supplanter, The spirit of good narrative, flatters you, convinced that in reporting briefly One choice incident, you have known beauty other than that of stys, on Which to fix your admiration. |