SHRIEKS out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire br That is not quenched but hath for only fruit br What writhes and dies not in its rotten root: br Two things made flesh, the visible desire br To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire, br Mouthing before the mirrors with wild foot br Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit, br The perfect twanger of the Chinese lyre! br A heart with generous virtues run to seed br In vices making all a jumbled creed: br A soul that knows not love nor trust nor shame, br But cuts itself with knives to bawl and bleed — br If thou we've known of late, art still the same, br What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name? br Once on thy lips the golden-honeyed bees br Settling made sweet the heart that was not strong, br And sky and earth and sea swooned into song: br Once on thine eyes the light of agonies br Flashed through the soul and robbed the days of ease.