Hermione
Our Hermy attended as Psyche—
She siked and she got it across!
And Fothergil Finch, rather gaumy
With Cosmic cosmetics, was there,
But the Swami went just as the Swami,
After oiling the kinks in his hair.
I said to Hermione: "Goddess!
You're graceful, you're Greek, you're a rose,
From the pinions that rise from your bodice
To the raddle I note on your toes,
"And Fothergil, here, with his censer,
And his little cheeks crimson as beets,
Your acolyte, perfume-dispenser,
Is sweet as a page out of Keats,
"But tell me, my Dea—my Psyche!—
(With your wings outspread as to race
With that swift and acephalous Nike
Who lost her bean somewhere in Thrace)—
"My Thea—my classical pigeon!—
Is not your Sincerity shocked
By this giddy revue of religion?…
Are none of these gods being mocked?…
[164]
