The fighter’s anger, the faun’s impudence,
Thou makest of all these a lovely thing;
Proud heart, sick body, mind’s magnificence:
Puget, the convict’s melancholy king.
Watteau, the carnival of illustrious hearts,
Fluttering like moths upon the wings of chance;
Bright lustres light the silk that flames and darts,
And pour down folly on the whirling dance.
Goya, a nightmare full of things unknown ;
The fœtus witches broil on Sabbath night ;
Old women at the mirror; children lone
Who tempt old demons with their limbs delight.
Delacroix, lake of blood ill angels haunt,
Where ever-green, o’ershadowing woods arise ;
Under the surly heaven strange fanfares chaunt
And pass, like one of Weber’s strangled sighs,
And malediction, blasphemy and groan,
Ecstasies, cries, Te Deums, and tears of brine,
Are echoes through a thousand labyrinths flown ;
For mortal hearts an opiate divine ;
