XXII 
PREFACE. 
 
There can be no peace between Socrates and Athens, 
between Jesus and Jerusalem.  We must then first throw 
moral bombs, and this book is mine ! 
It is a curious position.  All my sympathy is with 
my own class — birth, education, wealth, courage, pride. 
These are my heritage.  But all my own people are busy 
pretending to live the dirty, stinking, lousy, poor ; Corio-
lanus “ licking the breech of a leprous hangman.”  (Not 
Crowley, this time :  Catullus). 
So that on mature consideration I drop the Revd. 
C. Verey of “ Clouds without Water ” — it is only one 
more satire.  The invention was not cowardice but art. 
My sympathies are entirely with the alleged author of the 
Quatorzains ;  in a world of Winnington-Ingrams it is about 
the best that any one can do. 
At the same time, I have a foible :  I should like to pro-
duce ideal poetry ;  poetry free from the false conditions of 
modern crapulence.  “ Clouds without Water ” and this 
World’s Tragedy are mostly nonsense to a Nina Olivier or 
a Dorothy Lamb, those avatars of Pagan art.  But to a 
Dilke, lamed by a kick from the British ass ;  or to a Burton, 
swimming in the Sea of Glue — they must seem miracles of 
virility and truth.  Natural love and love of Nature are 
poetry everywhere ;  and (idleness !) I hope one day to be 
able to leave the English hypocrites to their own beastliness, 
and live in my own world.  Until I am wanted ;  in the hour 
of battle. 
One thing I must ask ;  let this book be assiduously