(The fantasia of a fallen gentleman on a cold, bitter night.)

Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy,
In the flash of gold heels on the hard pavement.
Now see I
That warmth’s the very stuff of poesy.
Oh, God, make small
The old star-eaten blanket of the sky,
That I may fold it round me and in comfort lie.

Lighthearted I walked into the valley wood
In the time of hyacinths,
Till beauty like a scented cloth
Cast over, stifled me. I was bound
Motionless and faint of breath
By loveliness that is her own eunuch.

Now pass I to the final river
Ignominiously, in a sack, without sound,
As any peeping Turk to the Bosphorus.

If I could catch that moth,
that fluttering, wayward thing
that beats about inside me all the day and half the night,
(and insignificant net could certainly do it)
I’d stick him through the head
with a pin that’s long and thing,
a pin that long and strong enough to mount him under glass;
(an insignificant pin could certainly do it)
I’d learn of him once for all,
the color of his wings,
the nature of those crazy things that fooled me all these years:
purple, red or blue,
yellow, white or black,
and whether they’re one and all of these and a shade or two besides;
(an insignificant harmony or dissonance they could be)
I’d learn them once for all,
I’d know them, every vein,
so clear to all my neighbors, so invisible – to me.