The tilt of a scornful nose—
That the joyous call
Of a madrigal,
The voice of a wild red rose,
[188] ]Awake in his room when the lamp burns low,
And the buzz-flies sink to rest;
And his throbbing brain,
With a mad refrain,
Sings the Soul-Song of the West.
But we of the “Times” and the “Sunday Sin”