On the Disastrous Spread of Aestheticism in all Classes

Impetuously I sprang from bed,Long before lunch was up,That I might drain the dizzy dewFrom the day's first golden cup.

In swift devouring ecstasyEach toil in turn was done;I had done lying on the lawnThree minutes after one.

For me, as Mr. Wordsworth says,The duties shine like stars;I formed my uncle's character,Decreasing his cigars.

But could my kind engross me? No!Stern Art-what sons escape her?Soon I was drawing Gladstone's noseOn scraps of blotting paper.

Then on-to play one-fingered tunesUpon my aunt's piano.In short, I have a headlong soul,I much resemble Hanno.

(Forgive the entrance of the notToo cogent Carthaginian.It may have been to make a rhyme;I lean to that opinion.)

Then my great work of book researchTill dusk I took in hand-The forming of a final, soundOpinion on The Strand.

But when I quenched the midnight oil,And closed the Referee,Whose thirty volumes folioI take to bed with me,

I had a rather funny dream,Intense, that is, and mystic;I dreamed that, with one leap and yell,The world became artistic.

The Shopmen, when their souls were still,Declined to open shops-And Cooks recorded frames of mindIn sad and subtle chops.

The stars were weary of routine:The trees in the plantationWere growing every fruit at once,In search of sensation.

The moon went for a moonlight stroll,And tried to be a bard,And gazed enraptured at itself:I left it trying hard.

The sea had nothing but a moodOf 'vague ironic gloom,'With which t'explain its presence inMy upstairs drawing-room.

The sun had read a little bookThat struck him with a notion:He drowned himself and all his firesDeep in a hissing ocean.

Then all was dark, lawless, and lost:I heard great devilish wings:I knew that Art had won, and snaptThe Covenant of Things.

I cried aloud, and I awoke,New labours in my head.I set my teeth, and manfullyBegan to lie in bed.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,So I my life conduct.Each morning see some task begun,Each evening see it chucked.

But still, in sudden moods of dusk,I hear those great weird wings,Feel vaguely thankful to the vastStupidity of things.

Envoi

Clear was the night: the moon was youngThe larkspurs in the plotsMingled their orange with the goldOf the forget-me-nots.

The poppies seemed a silver mist:So darkly fell the gloom.You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaksWere buttercups in bloom.

But one thing moved: a little childCrashed through the flower and fern:And all my soul rose up to greetThe sage of whom I learn.

I looked into his awful eyes:I waited his decree:I made ingenious attemptsTo sit upon his knee.

The babe upraised his wondering eyes,And timidly he said,"A trend towards experimentIn modern minds is bred.

"I feel the will to roam, to learnBy test, experience, nous,That fire is hot and ocean deep,And wolves carnivorous.

"My brain demands complexity,"The lisping cherub cried.I looked at him, and only said,"Go on. The world is wide."

A tear rolled down his pinafore,"Yet from my life must passThe simple love of sun and moon,The old games in the grass;

"Now that my back is to my homeCould these again be found?"I looked on him and only said,"Go on. The world is round."