Through hissing snow, through rain, through many hundred Mays,
Contorted in Promethean jest, the gargoyles sit,
And watch the crowds pursue the charted ways,
Whose source is birth, whose end they only know. 
Charms borrowed from the loveliest of hells,
And from the earth, a rhapsody of wit,
They hear the sacramental bells
Chime through the towers, and they smile. 
Smile on the insects in the square below,
Smile on the stars that kiss the infinite,
And, when the clouds hang low, they gaily spout
Grey water on the heads of the devout
That gather, whispering, in the sabbath street. 
O gargoyles! was the vinegar and bile
So bitter?  Was the eucharist so sweet?

Paris, 1919

VII

Gods dine on prayer and sacred song,
And go to sleep between;
The gods have slumbered long;
The gods are getting lean.

Sheffield, 1917

VIII

A smile will turn away green eyes
That laughter could not touch,
The dangers of those subtleties,
The stealthy, clever hand,
Should not affright you overmuch
If you but understand
How Judas, clad in Oxford grey,—­
Could walk abroad on Easter Day.

Paris, 1919

IX

Two Kings there were, one Good, one Bad;
The first was mournfulness itself,
The second, happy as a lad,—­
And both are dust upon a shelf.

Sheffield, 1917

X

I see that Hermes unawares,
Has left his footprints on the path;
See here, he fell, and in his wrath
He pulled out several golden hairs
Against the brambles.  Guard them well,
The hairs of gods are valuable.

Paris, 1919

XI

Semiramis, the whore of Babylon,
Bade me go walking with her.  I obeyed. 
Philosophy, I thought, is not afraid
Of any woman underneath the sun. 
Far up the hills she led me, where one ledge
Thrust out a slender finger to the sky,
Dizzy and swaying as an eagle’s cry;
Semiramis stepped to the farthest edge.

And there she danced, whirling upon her toes,
The triumph of a flame was in her face,
Faster and faster as the mad wind blows,
She whirled, and slipped, and dashed down into space.... 
Next day I saw her smiling in the sun,
Semiramis, the Queen of Babylon.

Paris, 1919

XII

Bring hemlock, black as Cretan cheese,
And mix a sacramental brew;
A worthy drink for Socrates,
Why not for you?

Sheffield, 1917

XIII

Walking through the town last night,
I learned the lore of second sight,
And saw through all those solid walls,
Imbecile and troglodyte.