I used to have the book, but I have lost it; it was full of things like that.
And then, of course, there was the Futurist school, which ran into all sorts of extremes; but none more curious, I think, than the “Page-decorating” group of writers, who said that neither sense nor grammar nor even sound counted for anything in poetry; an immediate, telling effect ought to be produced by the mere look of the letters on the page. I can give an example of it from an old album of mine: it is no use trying to make head or tail of it, but if you look at it with your eyes half-shut, so to speak, you can just see that the first verse contains pretty and the second contains ugly letters, or groups of letters:
St. Just-in-Roseland! St. Just-in-Roseland!
All vervein, desirable vervein, and melilot.
Here veined agrimony swoons, with fumes calamitous, daintily;
Arable fallows assoil sly fingers;
Purple woofs incarnate of swishy meadows,
Dilapidated obloquies amorously urgent, all anyhow, wayward fingers,
Transience unimaginably rapid,
Languorous ditties, that opiates inhibit,