The Decadent

Dulness, less comely than grief, has gone over my soul 
Sullen and sluggish its waters of bitterness roll; 
It is naught to me now 
How the wind-stricken woods to the lash of the nor'-wester bow, 
How the bubbles are bright on the vanishing track of the vole, 
How beauty is writ on the world, as a legend is writ on a scroll. 

It is naught to me, drunken of dulness, an alien here,
How the peoples are trodden of anger and sorrow and fear; 
How lust on the shoulder of love has laid tremulous hand. 
I am dull, I am slack;
And doubt goes before me, and following fast on my track 
A ghost I can hear stepping soft o'er the leaf-sodden land. 

I am old, I am cold, 
I have trafficked for dreams in the markets where visions are sold;
I have bought me a dream, and the dream of my spirit takes toll,
And of dreams I am sick. 
In the place of dead dreams, dead desires, I alone stand up, quick — 
Dulness, less comely than grief, has encompassed my soul.