The poet dealing in Dejection

to Beauty iterates: adieu!

He says that human days are only

words on a page picked up by you

upon your way (a page ripped out—

where from? You know not and reject it)

or from the night into the night

through a bright hall a brief bird’s flight.

Zoilus (a majestic rascal,

whom only lust of gain can stir)

and Publicus, litterateur

(a nervous leaseholder of glory),

cower before me in dismay

because I’m wicked, cold, and gay,

because honor and life I weigh

on Pushkin’s scales and dare prefer

honor …