PROEM 
 
 
 
Master, I come. But ere the pregnant gloom 
Lighten at last, I ask myself for whom 
I take the pen, since English throbs and glows 
Forth from its gold, like streams from sunny snows. 
And if I write for England, who will read ? 
As if, when moons of Ramazan recede, 
Some fatuous angel-porter should deposit 
His perfect wine within the privy closet ! 
“ What do they know, who only England know ? ” 
Only what England paints its face to show. 
Love mummied and relabelled “ chaste affection, ” 
And lust excused as “ natural selection.” 
Caligula upbraids the cruel cabby, 
And Nero birches choir-boys in the Abbey ; 
Semiramis sandpapered to a simper, 
And Clytemaestra whittled to a whimper !