George Moore

In speaking of ‘aspiration,’

From the recesses of a pen more dolorous than blackness

itself,

Were you presenting us with one more form of imperturbable

French drollery,

Or was it self directed banter?

Habitual ennui

Took from you, your invisible, hot helmet of anaemia—

While you were filling your “little glass” from the

decanter

Of a transparent-murky, would-be-truthful “hobohemia”—

And then facetiously

Went off with it? Your soul’s supplanter,

The spirit of good narrative, flatters you, convinced that

in reporting briefly

One choice incident, you have known beauty other than that

of stys, on

Which to fix your admiration.

So far as the future is concerned,

So far as the present is concerned,

If external action is effete

And rhyme is outmoded,

I shall revert to you,

Habakkuk, as on a recent occasion I was goaded

Into doing, by XY, who was speaking of unrhymed

verse.

This man said—I think that I repeat

His identical words:

“Hebrew poetry is

Prose with a sort of heightened consciousness. ‘Ecstacy

affords

The occasion and expediency determines the form.’”