In speaking of ‘aspiration,’
  From the recesses of a pen more dolorous than blackness        
      itself,
     Were you presenting us with one more form of imperturbable
         French drollery,
     Or was it self directed banter?
        Habitual ennui
           Took from you, your invisible, hot helmet of anaemia—
     While you were filling your “little glass” from the
              decanter
           Of a transparent—murky, would—be—truthful “hobohemia”—
        And then facetiously
     Went off with it?   Your soul’s supplanter,
  The spirit of good narrative, flatters you, convinced that
           in reporting briefly
One choice incident, you have known beauty other than that      
         of stys, on
Which to fix your admiration.
 
               So far as the future is concerned,
“Shall not one say, with the Russian philosopher,
   ‘How is one to know what one doesn’t know?’”
               So far as the present is concerned,
 
If external action is effete
   And rhyme is outmoded,
      I shall revert to you,
   Habakkuk, as on a recent occasion I was goaded
        Into doing, by XY, who was speaking of unrhymed                    
                 verse.
This man said—I think that I repeat
  His identical words:
     “Hebrew poetry is
  Prose with a sort of heightened consciousness.   ‘Ecstacy
               affords
        The occasion and expediency determines the form.’”

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