<h2><SPAN name="page112"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE DECADENT</h2>
<p class="poetry">Among the virile hosts he passed along,<br/>
Conspicuous for an undetermined grace<br/>
Of sexless beauty. In his form and face<br/>
God’s mighty purpose somehow had gone wrong.<br/>
Then on his loom, he wove a careful song,<br/>
Of sensuous threads; a wordy web of lace<br/>
Wherein the primal passions of the race<br/>
And his own sins made wonder for the throng.</p>
<p class="poetry">A little pen prick opened up a vein,<br/>
And gave the finished mesh a crimson blot—<br/>
The last consummate touch of
studied art.<br/>
But those who knew strong passion and keen pain,<br/>
Looked through and through the pattern and found
not<br/>
One single great emotion of the
heart.</p>
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