SATAN
Indeed he is:
And not a bad one. Once I would have scorned
The poets; but we moderns so surpass
The ancients here that I am proud to write
Some verses now and then. For we have learned
That poetry, like all the other arts,
Is pure technique: the mere ideas are nothing,
The form is everything. That ennobles us
And makes us artists. And as artist, I
Am not contemptible, as you may see
From this slight sample. With your leave, I'll read.
(Satan produces an enormous scrap-book of magazine-clippings,
turns over the pages and at last begins to read)
A Watteau Melody
Oh, let me take your lily hand,
And where the secret star-beams shine
Draw near, to see and understand
Pierrot and Columbine.
Around the fountains, in the dew,
Where afternoon melts into night,
With gracious mirth their gracious crew
Entice the shy birds of delight.
Of motley dress and maskèd face,
Of sparkling unrevealing eyes,
They track in gentle aimless chase
The moment as it flies.
Their delicate beribboned rout,
Gallant and fair, of light intent,
Weaves through the shadows in and out
With infinite artful merriment.
Dear lady of the lily hand—
Do then our stars so clearly shine
That we, who do not understand,
May mock Pierrot and Columbine?
Beyond this garden-grove I see
The wise, the noble, and the brave
In ultimate futility
Go down into the grave.