A raffle every sense
What pleasure for the aesthete?
for his father? for his kin?
for disorder and its empire?
for his stomach ossified?
What but misery for the aesthete,
his sophistry stuck still
in English lakes and hired hovels?
What redemption for the aesthete
possessed of but five senses
that themselves run obsolete?
What but death for the aesthete
whose sole creed is sublimity,
who too goes in the teeth?
– – – –
A possible, if gimmicky, edit follows:
“his sophistry stuck still
in English lakes and rumor mills?”