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, “Shall not one say, with the Russian philosopher, ‘How is one to know what one doesn’t know?’” So far as the present is concerned,