- Effluvium? Brown muttered, under his breath.
Sweet Norah Winebisquit bedewed with sleep
Swept down through sooted flues of chimney-sweep.
And where? she cried, can be this sceptered rod
That men call Recktall Brown, and I call god.
Straight through a frosted glass-partitioned door
They led her, and she doubted now no more.
(The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she)
Might no more question wherewithal of he:
Dreadful he sat, bastioned in golden oak,
The humanizing of some dirty joke
The gods tell one another ere they stand
To attend the last obscenity, called man.
.
.
.
Heaven's crown, brown-bought, fell lightly on his brow,
Lay heavy on her perspicacious Now.
(Still on the dreadful teeth of time she trod,
And marveled at the maleness of god.)
Sweet Norah Winebisquit, bedewed with sleep,
Awoke this decorated painted heap
Of present woman: could she doubt her sin?
Sought furiously for the flame within,
Presented in a naked leaping cry
The burning plunder of the present I.
Pride drew her garments up, and swathed her face
In lineaments incapable of disgrace.
Slipped then away, her face bedewed with do,
Beyond the glass, and knowing all, she knew
That the immortals have their ashcans too.
(probably Esme wiritng, I am not sure)
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