Apart from the world and her wonders,
In a garden of poppies to wait,
And list to the tremulous thunders
Of the chariot of Fate.
O carcase not fragrant but fetid!
O wave whither all things are shot!
O dogs not in honour, but treated
As of brutes the most rotten that rot!
O moment not gladsome but gloomy,
When the threads of our Fates intertwined;