WORDS .

In city slums, haggling o'er filthy gold
And desperate, livid at the cards each day,
And though I suffer agony untold,
No loving hand can ever lure me away.
In insolent debauch, when mad with wine,
I press some lewd, roughed courtesan to my breast,
No friendly word, no mother thought divine,
Has ever the vice within my veins suppressed.
And when in drunken stupor, with wild eyes,
My soul spells murder in its sombre alarms,
No melody moves its darkness to surprise,
And worshiped Schubert has no longer charms.
Indifferent, callous to all fate, disgraced
Lacking alone the hemp about my neck,
I yawn thro' life degraded and debased,
A parody on man, a mental wreck.
Each night I make forced marches to the grave;
To soothe me naught has faculty or art,
And even sweet prayer alas, would fail to save
My gangrened soul and my vindictive heart.
But sometimes in great orgies of despair,
I chance to hear strange sympathetic words,
That hold the power to mitigate my care,
And lull me like the summer songs of birds, —
Words that allure and fascinate my sense,
That rise and soar like some Byzantine dome,
Sonorous, liquid, superb, immense;
Words like " Jehovah, " " Calm, " " Aurora, " " Rome, "
And when God wills that these rare sounds should fall
Like saintly benedictions on my ear,
I shout like warriors at the trumpet's call;
My wine-clogged brain expands, mine eyes grow clear.
Hurling my glass away with passionate hate,
I curse the laughing harlot at my side,
Some subtile influence supremely great,
Reasons to me my manliness and pride.
Then with calm brows, in infinite delight
I rise and seek my long deserted home,
Murmuring in rapture to the listening night,
Words like " Jehovah, " " Calm, " " Aurora, " " Rome. "