I Dreamed I Saw Three Demi-Gods Who In A Cafe Sat, And One Was Small And Crapulous, And One Was Large And Fat; And One Was Eaten Up With Vice And Verminous At That. The First He Spoke Of Secret Sins, And Gems And Perfumes Rare; And Velvet Cats And Courtesans Voluptuously Fair: "Who Is The Sybarite?" I Asked. They Answered: "Baudelaire." The Second Talked In Tapestries, By Fantasy Beguiled; As Frail As Bubbles, Hard As Gems, His Pageantries He Piled; "This Lord Of Language, Who Is He?" They Whispered "Oscar Wilde." The Third Was Staring At His Glass From Out Abysmal Pain; With Tears His Eyes Were Bitten In Beneath His Bulbous Brain. "Who Is The Sodden Wretch?" I Said. They Told Me: "Paul Verlaine." Oh, Wilde, Verlaine And Baudelaire, Their Lips Were Wet With Wine; Oh Poseur, Pimp And Libertine! Oh Cynic, Sot And Swine! Oh Votaries Of Velvet Vice! . . . Oh Gods Of Light Divine! Oh Baudelaire, Verlaine And Wilde, They Knew The Sinks Of Shame; Their Sun-Aspiring Wings They Scorched At Passion'S Altar Flame; Yet Lo! Enthroned, Enskied They Stand, Immortal Sons Of Fame. I Dreamed I Saw Three Demi-Gods Who Walked With Feet Of Clay, With Cruel Crosses On Their Backs, Along A Miry Way; Who Climbed And Climbed The Bitter Steep To Which Men Turn And Pray.