I have tried to gloat on in poem and prose,
But oh! all the while there seemed something impure
In the sniff of the thing that tormented my nose;
And as to High Art—well, to me it seemed high,
Like an over-hung hare—only food for the fly.
Yet I didn't dare say that I felt it to be
Pseudo-sphinxian fudge, and sheer Belial bosh;
Or that after Art-babble at five o'clock tea,
I felt that the thing I most craved was—a wash;
Because in the view of the Mystical School,