I sat in tall Gomorrah on a day, Boring myself with solitude and dreams, When, like strange priests, with sacerdotal tread, The seven mortal sins, in rich array,
Came in and knelt: one old, and weak, and gray, One that was shrouded like a person dead, And one whose robes cast reddish-purple gleams Upon her scornful face at peace alway.
They swung before me amschirs of strange gold, And one most beautiful began to pray, Dreamily garmented in pallid blue.
But I said only—I have dream’d of you. Naught really is; all things are very old, And very foolish. Please to go away.