Shrieks Out Of Smoke, A Flame Of Dung-Straw Fire That Is Not Quenched But Hath For Only Fruit What Writhes And Dies Not In Its Rotten Root: Two Things Made Flesh, The Visible Desire To Match In Filth The Skunk, The Ape In Ire, {87A} Mouthing Before The Mirrors With Wild Foot Beyond All Feebler Footprint Of Pursuit, The Perfect Twanger Of The Chinese Lyre! A Heart With Generous Virtues Run To Seed In Vices Making All A Jumbled Creed: A Soul That Knows Not Love Nor Trust Nor Shame, But Cuts Itself With Knives To Bawl And Bleed - If Thou We've Known Of Late, Art Still The Same, What Need, O Soul, To Sign Thee With Thy Name? Once On Thy Lips The Golden-Honeyed Bees Settling Made Sweet The Heart That Was Not Strong, And Sky And Earth And Sea Burst Into Song: {87B} Once On Thine Eyes The Light Of Agonies Flashed Through The Soul And Robbed The Days Of Ease. {87C} But Tunes Turn Stale When Love Turns Babe, And Long The Exiled Gentlemen Grow Fat With Wrong. And Peasants, Workmen, Beggars, What Are These? {87D} O You Who Sang The Italian Smoke Above, - Mud-Lark Of Freedom, Pipe Of That Vile Band Whose Envy Slays The Tyrant, Not The Love Of These Poor Souls None Have The Keeping Of - It Is Your Hand - It Is Your Pandar Hand Smites The Bruised Mouth Of Pilloried Ireland!