Etiolated flame is now abroad,
And in between the hills there is a glare
Like that from unseen bonfires; night is flawed
With lanterns swaying in the sultry air;
Flames play like moths, and hover round earth's must;
There is the apparition of bright hair
And in the woods a three-tined fork is thrust.
There are viewless wings of fire that must strike moths
In their munchings, flittings, useless copulations;
The forest fancies of the twilit Goths
Are rampant; there are obscure cerebrations
In the brains of birds; the wings of some now whir
Like wheels of prayer in China; and there runs
An aching to the tips of each beast's fur.
This is Night's culture, this is what they call
Aestheticism, with attendant pallor,
White nakedness and lights ephemeral,
With many a sharp neurosis and a fervor
And inspiration from the sexual parts,
The conic breasts, the thighs of grief and dolor,
The arid breath of desiccated hearts.