The whole world, colourless, lapsed. Earth fled from my feet like a dream,
And the whirl of the walls of Space was about me, and moved as a stream
Flowing and ebbing and flowing all night to a weary tune
("Such as that of my verses"? Get out!) in the face of a sick-souled moon.
The keen stars kindled and faded and fled, and the wind in my ears
Was the wail of a poet for failure--you needn't come snivelling tears
And spoiling the mixture, confound you, with dropping your tears into that!
I know I'm pathetic--I must be--and you soft-hearted and fat,
And I'm grateful of course for your kindness--there, don't come hugging
me, now--
But because a fellow's pathetic, you needn't low like a cow.
I should like--on my soul, I should like--to remember--but somehow I
can't--
If the lady whose love has reduced me to this was the niece or the aunt.
But whichever it was, I feel sure, when I published my lays of last year
(You remember their title--The Tramp--only seven-and-sixpence--not dear),
I sent her a copy (perhaps her tears fell on the title-page--yes--
I should like to imagine she wept)--and the Bride of Bulgaria (MS.
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