Still you encourage those whom you can hire
To fix on canvas, for the future race
Of War-horses to simper at—admire,
The painted image of your painted face.
And any artist, author, or musician,
—If second-rate—is useful as a bait
To fish for guests—remember words like "Titian"
"—Shakespeare" "—Mozart," let go—and trust to Fate
To pull you through—avoid ideas—they're common
And might crack through the varnish of your smile,
Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon
Filling your soul with pity, and things vile.
THE OPEN DOOR
A light, within her glassy car, betrays
Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity
Of heavy curling features, and displays
A likeness to Assyrian Divinity.
When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside;
The yellow windows shout their nakedness...
Until again the weary buildings hide
Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness.
So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp
Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night
Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp,
Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light
Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill
Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded
—A broken chair, a figure standing still,
A withered plant—mean drama that, unheeded,
Flashes its image on the world's dark screen
But for a moment—yet the play goes on,
Vibrates through worlds—to mingle in a scene
Of final war or crime, or revolution;
But though finite to us, this act of blood
Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark
Of whirling planets, though a curious God
Might for the moment, notice a vague mark.