When Mr. Apollinax² visited the United States
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the
birch-trees,
And of Priapus³ in the shrubbery
Gaping at the lady in the swing.
In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor
Channing-Cheetah’s
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
His laughter was submarine and profound
Like the old man of the sea’s
Hidden under coral islands
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down
in the green silence,
Dropping from fingers of surf.
I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling
under a chair.
Or grinning over a screen
With seaweed in its hair.
I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard
turf
As his dry and passionate talk devoured the
afternoon.
‘He is a charming man’—‘But after all what did he
mean?’—
‘His pointed ears.... He must be unbalanced.’—
‘There was something he said that I might have
challenged.’
Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and
Mrs. Cheetah
I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten
macaroon.