Proem
Or even now that Golden Soul
Were treading water in the Styx.
A Pallid Skirt—anæmic Wisp,
As bloodless as a stick of chalk—
Got busy with this line of talk:
"The Sinner is Misunderstood!
How can the Spirit enter in,
Be blended with, the Truly Good
Unless through Sympathy with Sin?"
"Phryne," I murmured, sad and low,
"I pass the Buck—I do not know!"
Upon a mantel sat a Bust….
Some Hindu god, pug-faced and squat;
A visage to inspire disgust….
Lord Bilk, the Deity of Rot….
Nay, surely, ’twas the great god Bunk,
For when I wunk at it, it wunk!
I heard … I heard it proved that night
That Fire is Cold, and Black is White,
That Junk is Art, and Art is Junk,
That Virtue's wrong, and Vice is right,
That Death is Life, and Life is Death,
That Breath is Rocks, and Rocks are Breath:—
[3]
