Nightmare

I had a dream, I had a horrid dream. I dreamt that Byron travels for a house That handles wines from Portugal and Spain, That Shelley is a cashier of a bank, That Keats is valet to a wealthy Jew, That Oscar Wilde lays bricks, that Edgar Poe Is selling silks and satins on the road, And that Walt Whitman, he of noble height, Is manager of a department store. And I would have dreamed on, had not disgust, A flood of dire disgust, awakened me, And I myself was forced to rush downtown To live the life I shudder at in dream.

LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING HENRI'S PAINTING OF THE LADY IN BLACK VELVET

The Lady in black velvet is the night, The deep, uncanny, weird, mysterious night, The witching, troubling, awe-inspiring night, Serene and silent, sweet and subtle night, Tempestuous, tragic, black and feverish night.

The Lady in black velvet is the night, Her robe of black as black as blackest night, Enfolds a world--a world of sleepless night, A world of sighs, of cravings and of crimes, Of maddening joys, of languors that consume, Of pains unbearable, of livid fears, Of nightmares and of dreams.

Then there's the sombre gray of shifting clouds Whose masses rent asunder now reveal The radiant luminary of the night, Her silv'ry, radiant face is Queen of night. The Lady in black velvet is the night.