Dowson found harlots cheaper than hotels; Headlam for uplift; Image impartially imbued With raptures for Bacchus, Terpsichore and the Church. So spoke the author of "The Dorian Mood",
M. Verog, out of step with the decade, Detached from his contemporaries, Neglected by the young, Because of these reveries.
THE sky-like limpid eyes, The circular infant's face, The stiffness from spats to collar Never relaxing into grace;
The heavy memories of Horeb, Sinai and the forty years, Showed only when the daylight fell Level across the face Of Brennbaum "The Impeccable".
IN the cream gilded cabin of his steam yacht Mr. Nixon advised me kindly, to advance with fewer Dangers of delay. "Consider "Carefully the reviewer.
"I was as poor as you are; "When I began I got, of course, "Advance on royalties, fifty at first", said Mr. Nixon, "Follow me, and take a column, "Even if you have to work free.
"Butter reviewers. From fifty to three hundred "I rose in eighteen months; "The hardest nut I had to crack "Was Dr. Dundas.
"I never mentioned a man but with the view "Of selling my own works. "The tip's a good one, as for literature "It gives no man a sinecure."
And no one knows, at sight a masterpiece. And give up verse, my boy, There's nothing in it.
Likewise a friend of Bloughram's once advised me: Don't kick against the pricks, Accept opinion. The "Nineties" tried your game And died, there's nothing in it.
BENEATH the sagging roof The stylist has taken shelter, Unpaid, uncelebrated, At last from the world's welter
Nature receives him, With a placid and uneducated mistress He exercises his talents And the soil meets his distress.
The haven from sophistications and contentions Leaks through its thatch; He offers succulent cooking; The door has a creaking latch.
"CONSERVATRIX of Milésien" Habits of mind and feeling, Possibly. But in Ealing With the most bank-clerkly of Englishmen?
No, "Milésien" is an exaggeration. No instinct has survived in her Older than those her grandmother Told her would fit her station.
"DAPHNE with her thighs in bark Stretches toward me her leafy hands",-- Subjectively. In the stuffed-satin drawing-room I await The Lady Valentine's commands,
Knowing my coat has never been Of precisely the fashion To stimulate, in her, A durable passion;