Poetry is the supreme¹ fiction， madame.

    Take the moral law and make a nave² of it

    And from the nave build haunted heaven.  Thus，

    The conscience is converted into palms，

    Like windy citherns hankering for hymns³.

    We agree in principle.  That's clear.  But take

    The opposing law and make a peristyle，

    And from the peristyle project a masque

    Beyond the planets.  Thus， our bawdiness⁴，

    Unpurged by epitaph， indulged at last，

    Is equally converted into palms，

    Squiggling like saxophones.  And palm for palm，

    Madame， we are where we began.  Allow，

    Therefore， that in the planetary scene

    Your disaffected⁵ flagellants， well-stuffed，

    Smacking⁶ their muzzy bellies⁷ in parade，

    Proud of such novelties of the sublime⁸，

    Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk，

    May， merely may， madame， whip from themselves

    A jovial⁹ hullabaloo among the spheres.

    This will make widows wince¹⁰.  But fictive things

    Wink¹¹ as they will.  Wink most when widows wince.