Oh, life grotesque! How, whence did spring
The thought that gave thee blossoming?
How comes thy strange offensive bloom
Near knolls that give sweet violets room?
Sweet violets, which fill the air
With perfumed incense of a prayer
That, floating to the world above
Calls blessings from the soul of Love.
But thou, mephitic bloom! thou hast
A thought in thee of ages past,