In the days of my season of salad,
When the down was as dew on my cheek,
And for French I was bred on the ballad,
For Greek on the writers of Greek,--
Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy,
Of 'pleasure that winces and stings,'
Of white women and wine that is bloody,
And similar things. 
Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er,
And Desire that is dear as Delight;
Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er,
Of the bruises of kisses that bite;
Of embraces that clasp and that sever,
Of blushes that flutter and flee
Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever
Dolores may be. I sang of false faith that is fleeting
As froth of the swallowing seas,
Time's curse that is fatal as Keating
Is fatal to amorous fleas;
Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of
The lust that is blind as a bat--
By the help of my Muse and the help of
The relative THAT. Panatheist, bruiser and breaker
Of kings and the creatures of kings,
I shouted on Freedom to shake her
Feet loose of the fetter that clings;
Far rolling my ravenous red eye,
And lifting a mutinous lid,
To all monarchs and matrons I said I
Would shock them--and did. Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian,
O 'noble and nude and antique!'
Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion'
Ere washing was done by the week;
When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you
Were visions of delicate vice,
And the 'lilies and languors of virtue'
Not nearly so nice. O delights of the time of my teething,
Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande!
Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething
On blasted and blithering sand!

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