George Moore   by  Marianne Moore

 

 

In speaking of ‘aspiration,’

​

From the recesses of a pen more dolorous than blackness

itself,

Were you presenting us with one more form of imperturbable

French drollery,

Or was it self directed banter?

Habitual ennui

Took from you, your invisible, hot helmet of anaemia—

While you were filling your “little glass” from the

decanter

Of a transparent-murky, would-be-truthful “hobohemia”—

And then facetiously

Went off with it? Your soul’s supplanter,

The spirit of good narrative, flatters you, convinced that

in reporting briefly

One choice incident, you have known beauty other than that

of stys, on

Which to fix your admiration.