DISENCHANTMENT
My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied—
The lily's sheen's a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid.
ABASEMENT
With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.
STANZA WRITTEN IN DEPRESSION NEAR DULWICH
The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!
TO MY LADY
Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!
THE MONSTER
Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.
A TRUMPET BLAST
Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence,
Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun—
Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!
F. Anstey.
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