He bellowed through the garden
At the Countess Maurinais;
He heckled Henri Martin
As I strolled conif’rous way.
I heard him in the forest,
Though the mill creek struck him dumb;
The tulipfera highest,
Could not escape his awful hum.
His monologic discourse
Cross’d the ornamental pines;
I fled his mutt’rings hoarse
Among the restaurant’s fine wines.
At last I stopp’d in lilacs
Through ancient cherries having stirred:
For all his cursed rackets,
I knew I had not caught a word.
I thought he’d said “modernity,”
Or “planning that’s done wrong;”
He said in actuality:
“All this, it is already gone.”