That peacock opulence,
Swarming on strutting grime;
That massed ecstasy, squeezing itself,
Short-breathed, near suffocation;
That sound-abandonment, seeming to plunge
To deafness’s peace;
Yet keeping those maimed faculties alive,
Ever denying their last fulfilment.
Maybe it’s only I and it,
I, starting in the middle
And it, commensurate with my idea
Of my own size?
Maybe I didn’t grow
To match its quarter million,
Or maybe I didn’t shrink that far.
Yet never could I mar
That general bliss,
For truth is in strong feeling
And critics never bring their rules
To taboos’ strength.