The lily’s sheen’s a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid.
Abasement
With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.
Stanza Written in Depression Near Dulwich
The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;