 | The Queen of the Hid Isle |  |
3
Dedicatory Sonnet.
This Haschish dream, this cup-rose heavy-leaning
With opium's weight, this drunkenness of soul,
Bizarre, grotesque, satiric, with strange scroll
Of flaunting fancy's wildest floriage screening
No plashy depths of philosophic meaning,
Scoffing, believing, laughing at life's dole,
From heart that bleeds the while to death's dear goal,
Take, friend,—my own, from no man's field a gleaning.
With opium's weight, this drunkenness of soul,
Bizarre, grotesque, satiric, with strange scroll
Of flaunting fancy's wildest floriage screening
No plashy depths of philosophic meaning,
Scoffing, believing, laughing at life's dole,
From heart that bleeds the while to death's dear goal,
Take, friend,—my own, from no man's field a gleaning.
For I have made myself a clean new mould
To pour my fancies in, of mad burlesque,
Yet full of death withal as charnel air.
I first of men have carved in fancy's gold
So queer a pagod freaked with arabesque,
Though treading Wagner's ground 'twixt Goethe and Baudelaire.
To pour my fancies in, of mad burlesque,
Yet full of death withal as charnel air.
I first of men have carved in fancy's gold
So queer a pagod freaked with arabesque,
Though treading Wagner's ground 'twixt Goethe and Baudelaire.
March 16th, 1885.
| The Queen of the Hid Isle | |