A Quean of the Quality


Quean of the

Quality being the

Quatorzains of a


King of myself, I labour to espouse

An equal soul. Alas! how frail I find

The golden light within the gilded house.

Helpless and passionate, and weak of mind!

Lechers and lepers!—as all ivy cling,

Emasculate the healthy bole they haunt.

Eternity is pregnant; I shall sing

Now—by my power—a spirit grave and gaunt

Brilliant and selfish, hard and hot, to flaunt

Reared like a flame across the lampless west,

Until by love or laughter we enchaunt,

Compel ye to Kithairon’s thorny crest—

Evoe! Iacche! consummatum est.

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