Et Quidquid Aspiciebam Mors Erat
“In this and whatever days to come
The transparent world and its motions
Compose a sheer void. How could
That be removed upon which every
Animate joy was founded? What
Thrives now but the vile face of nature
Made up by the sun to idiot glory?
Let it sway and blow its intrinsic
Monotony of vapors, seasons,
Tumblebugs and blind men; let me
Weep and curse those begetting fools,
And honorably weep my life long.
“You would not cover me over
With the dropping indecent clods,
You sanctimonious bastards: take
Such of my hatred as is left
When I have cursed the aspergent
Water shaker with his stole, his
Sotto voce Latin sing song;
You craving, self-important ghouls,
Let me alone, or I will show you
The savage green sprouting
Through the obscene holes of your eyes.
“Gone out of the air, not gone
Out of my nightly vision, yet
With desperate years to be corrupted
There too, wasted, thinned
To the damned ghost of your convention—
You win in the end—he who was
So distinguished for patience,
For suffering, for valor,
Of such sensible pale fingers,
A humorous, wise man.
“Hereby I curse this hard city
And its whoring, golfing, political
Poker-playing men, all those
Who were schoolfellows or friends
In the old time, and never,
Though good churchgoers, visited him.
And I engrave here my small blessing
On that large silent decent one
Who thought it friendliness to do so;
Him and few others would I spare,
But let the rest go rot in a worse
Hell than even their own world is.
Yet their unawareness is his grace,
If grace be in this charnel progress:
His ten-year sickroom I say
Shames with life their death forever,
And all is death elsewhere.”
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