"Keyless, son of louts"

Keyless, son of louts

And old coffinbangers,

I, melancholic without shoes,

With wet marsupial eyes by night,

Meadlecherous, voluble, maidenly,

Soaring this barnvast time-of-life,

Despair of prophecy, at last, for this,

This vegetable poverty,

This sunscented nostrilism,

The sad, peculiar loss of intercourse,

All utterances, all riddles,

Our astral indifference,

All the eaves of time-its sweet filth-

And our lovely, deliberate ends.