damned thin moonlight, worse than gas— “Now in New York”—and so it goes.
Logic a marionette’s, all wrong Of premises; yet in some star A hero!—Where would he belong? But, even at that, what mask bizarre !
Spleen
Sunday: this satisfied procession Of definite Sunday faces; Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces In repetition that displaces Your mental self-possession By this unwarranted digression.
Evening, lights, and tea! Children and cats in the alley; Dejection unable to rally Against this dull conspiracy.
And Life, a little bald and gray, Languid, fastidious, and bland, Waits, hat and gloves in hand, Punctilious of tie and suit (Somewhat impatient of