But man still chased his jet-black butterflies,
And looking up, as from a rippled cloud,
Shunned me with viscous terror in his eyes,
Then fell a-triply sewing at his shroud,
Lest I should mar the self-fomenting strife
And cultivated void that was his life.
[A] These two lines are derived from Pope.
Back-Streets
INANE perspective stretched behind the street:
A wall, a yard, a wall, a yard, a wall,
Patterned interminably, patterned neat
With intervals of oblongs squat and tall.
A full moon dims the stars and here and there
Glints on a bulging square of window-pane.
Soon clinging sodden moistures glut the air
And mists fall heavier than autumn rain.
Only one room of all these rooms is lit.
Perhaps somebody watches, dreams absurd
And sentimental dreams, and from this pit
The ponderous bourdon of some heart is stirred.
Men live their packed exasperated lives,
Callous and unfamiliar, yet each knows,
In all these sordid chiaroscuro hives,
His neighbour’s pleasures and his neighbour’s woes.
Through gutters of stagnations and defeats,
Immense black ruins with the beds unmade,
Interminable agonising streets,
I walk alone, a stranger, and afraid
Werther-Introspection
“Talk to me somewhat quickly,
Or my imagination will carry me
To see her in the shameful act of sin.”
Duchess of Malfi.