I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves,
Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall;
The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves—
I loathed them one and all.
I howled aloud, "I would no more behold
A witch, an angel, or a saint.
Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold,
Or cinque-cento quaint.
"It may be that my taste has come to grief,
But if the spectral, dismal, dry,