Henry hates the world. What the world to Henry
Did will not bear thought.
Feeling no pain,
Henry stabbed his arm and wrote a letter
Explaining how bad it had been
In this world.
Old yellow, in a gown
Might have made a difference, ‘these lower beauties’,
And chartreuse could have mattered
Benaresâ€”the holy citiesâ€”
And Cambridge shimmering do not make up
For, well, the horror of unlove,
Nor south from Paris driving in the Spring
To Siena and on. . .”
Pulling together Henry, somber Henry
Woofed at things.
Spry disappointments of men
And vicing adorable children
Miserable women, Henry mastered, Henry
Tasting all the secret bits of life.