Epigrams

The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail; The sea, a parquet of coloured wood; The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges; Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames; Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering, Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.

They say we like London—O Hell!— They tell Us we shall never sell Our works (as if we cared). We’re “high brow” and long-haired Because we don’t Cheat and cant. We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme, Just because their rag-time Bores us. These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense; So they chime, Rhyme And time, And Slime, All praise their virtuous impotence.

I know a woman who is natural As any simple cannibal; This is a great misfortune, for her lot Is to reside with people who are not.