Among the pickled fetuses and bottled bones, Engaged in perfecting the catalogue, I found the last scion of the Senatorial families of Strasbourg, Monsieur Verog. For two hours he talked of Gallifet; Of Dowson; of the Rhymers' Club; Told me how Johnson (Lionel) died By falling from a high stool in a pub . . . But showed no trace of alcohol At the autopsy, privately performed -- Tissue preserved -- the pure mind Arose toward Newman as the whiskey warmed. Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels; Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbued With raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church. So spoke the author of "The Dorian Mood," M. Verog, out of step with the decade, Detached from his contemporaries, Neglected by the young, Because of these reveries. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISN'T IT ROMANTIC by KAREN SWENSON LOW BAROMETER by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE RUSH OF THE OREGON by ARTHUR GUITERMAN EVENING CLOUDS by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE ON THE SITE OF A MULBERRY-TREE PLANTED BY SHAKESPEARE ... by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI |