With the rage of my abasement, with the blast of my farewell;
I will smile with cynic softness, but my tears are dropping acrid
And sizzling in a gutter down the white-hot streets of Hell!
1914
Lulled are the dazzling colours of the day,
And mild the heavens, burnt out like an ash.
Hungry and strange along the shadowed dusk
Walks Melancholy, and with bitter mouth