"You, I have watched you all who sat Successive round the food-stained mat, And reckoned many who lived for that Alone; have seen the mark Of that last state the Thinking Beast Peep through the foliage of the feast, And crown its poet's flight with greased Fingers that grope the dark; Have heard a cleanlier bosom catch Her breath, and fumble with my latch Irresolute. The lark "My inmates never feared to match Bespoke the end. I belched the batch, Rolling them down the street, a patch Of dirt against the dawn. Then in its stead there came a saint, Inventor of a soul-complaint, Who gave men's faith a coat of paint Like mine, and made me yawn With furtive wenching. Here have sighed Exultant groom and weeping bride Led like a captive fawn. "This way passed those who marry lean Girl-chattels ere their times of teen. I knew a like but milder scene: A hawk, small birds that cower. How soon the chosen was brought back dead-- Poisoned, the _hakim_ always said-- The husband groaned beside the bed, Arose, and kept the dower, But swept his conscience out with prayer. Man took the angels unaware When he became a power. "And what of woman? On my stair The merchants spread their gaudiest ware, For which fools bought a love affair That ended in a jerk. Enough! To round the _tamasha_ A bloated thing came by, the Shah; It grinned, and viziers fawned 'Ha! ha!' Curs, brainless as a Turk. And all the women in his train Beheld him once and ne'er again, And called his love their work. "You see, my friends, I tired of this Wild doubling in the chase of bliss. Pards miss their spring as men their kiss, And yet the quarry dies. I learned the world's least mortal god, Whose epitaph is Ichabod, May sport till noon, but if he nod Shall never more arise. Then, caravan, you passed, and I Have solved my riddle with a cry: The sad are never wise. "Your song was all that I had heard In dreams beyond the wildest bird, That rose above my yellow-furred Basses that bell and roar. It took the heart of me in tow To heights that I had longed to know, To the great deeps where lovers go And find--and want--no shore. In these alone is man fulfilled; And gleaming in the air I build My hope of him once more. "For all the few that see truth whole, And take its endlessness for goal, And steer by stars as if no shoal Could mar their firmament, For all the few that sing and sail Knowing their quest of small avail, Thank God who gave them strength to fail In finding what He meant...." "Poets!" the landlord groaned, "and poor! This house is cursed." He banged the door Behind them as they went.