Page:The heptalogia, or, The seven against sense - a cap with seven bells (IA heptalogiaorseve00swin).pdf/90

 And the whirl of the walls of Space was about me, and moved as a stream Flowing and ebbing and flowing all night to a weary tune ('Such as that of my verses'? Get out!) in the face of a sick-souled moon. The keen stars kindled and faded and fled, and the wind in my ears Was the wail of a poet for failure—you needn't come snivelling tears And spoiling the mixture, confound you, with dropping your tears into that! I know I'm pathetic—I must be—and you soft-hearted and fat, And I'm grateful of course for your kindness—there, don't come hugging me, now—