ANAPAESTS
I hate the bright streams of perfection,
The words that are golden and wise,
Triumphantly noble in pain;
The Spirits in fierce insurrection,
But calm as the tent of the skies,—
I hate, for I cannot attain.
Songs breathed to the tremulous ditties
Of broken and harsh violins,
Songs hinting the rose and the vine,
Half drowned in the roar of red cities,
And youthfully pleased at their sins,
These songs I adore: they are mine.
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