Is plenitude of passion palled
By poverty of scorn?
Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled?
Has Death its wisest victims called
When idiots are born?
Gelett Burgess.
ABSTEMIA
In Mystic Argot often Confounded with Farrago
If aught that stumbles in my speech
Or stutters in my pen,
Or, claiming tribute, each to each,
Rise, not to fall again,
Let something lowlier far, for me,
Through evanescent shades—
Than which my spirit might not be
Nourished in fitful ecstasy
Not less to know but more to see
Where that great Bliss pervades.
Gelett Burgess.
PSYCHOLOPHON
Supposed to be Translated from the Old Parsee
Twine then the rays
Round her soft Theban tissues!
All will be as She says,
When that dead past reissues.
Matters not what nor where,
Hark, to the moon's dim cluster!
How was her heavy hair
Lithe as a feather duster!
Matters not when nor whence;
Flittertigibbet!
Sounds make the song, not sense,
Thus I inhibit!
Gelett Burgess.