THE GARDEN OF EROS. 
I9 
Even to the uttermost silence that may be 
Even in this vast circuit of eternity. 
So, o my golden charioteer, I creep 
Into thine arms, and dream the dream of sleep. 
 
He sleeps.  Upon the still beauty descends from his tree  
the man-vulture. 
 
THE VULTURE 
 
Yaugh Waugh ! 
Butch !  this is terrible 
That all these people should be happy — Pss ! — 
Without a thought of Me ! 
Ga !  Ga !  the plague 
Rot them in hell ! 
Cramp !  Ague !  Pox !  Gout !  Stone — Hoo ! 
What shall I do to stop it ? 
It’s sin — sin — sin.  I hate them.  Oog ! 
I want them to go groaning 
Over imaginary ills 
With white eyes twisted up to Me, 
Where I sit and croak 
And snarl !  Ugh !  Faugh ! 
I’m Yaugh Waugh ! 
I’m Yaugh Waugh !