Within the city merrily rage such grotesque horrors
As might be guessed: the tangled nerves of the dead
Run lunatic there, like evil spirits self-baffled,
Crying vengeance on themselves. A tangle of no consequence:
There is no logic in this world, no justice bargained,
But, by the same rule, no one is tender in his flesh or right.
All's a wild fraud there, the city a grim caprice.
The febrile fragments which animate the tombs
Form one electric brain, inside of which the surgical eye
Discerns the dolesome city that I tell of.
The inhabitants are a sprightly, vicious tribe.
It is not possible to say to what age they belong.
The city has, in some respects, a mediaeval air —
Gothic laughter, Gothic malignancy.
In other respects it is a bigot of modernism:
The buildings keep their categoric functions secret.
Here and there one sees a balcony of curling fret,
But no token this of the proud favours of Sunday afternoons.
More likely is the sight of some refractory victim
Dangling therefrom with piteous resolution, preferring
So to swing under blows than to lie tragical
On the inexorable pavement high below.
In the great square of the city such a balcony
Has had long fame in these sophistications —
No one thinks to ask of the inner drama of the house.
Before it stands an ancient street-lamp of equal honour —
Renowned convenience of impromptu hangings.
One is not over-nice in the proprieties of torture.
The motor-cars and tram-cars go their way
Without stopping to look on or make observance of
The writhing bodies that sometimes choke their progress.
The most delicate prank in vogue is to string the wretch
Behind a motor-car and let him trail to the traffic's random —
Often there's luck in this, the silly survives intact.
The most roguish galliards are the braves not long deceased.
They jaunt about, their swords unscabbarded, like soldiers home on leave
Valorously sighing for the battle-front.
There's nothing quite so prodigious, so wanton-quaint
In this whole hypochondriacal repertory
As the intent skill of a swordsman juggling true
Some difficult subject on his tidy sword-tip.
The great bonfire signalling the middle of the square
Is not a sight to claim much of your time.
One deals there only with the unimportant cases.
On the pillar not far off are left marooned
Those tiresome neighbours without foibles — one at a time.
Often a whole month goes by before the righteous one
Transpires in martyrdom, to make room for the next.
But, come, these are indeed palling frivolities
In which the dead themselves take little interest —
As in the newspapers of foreign countries
Treatises on native modes do not abound.