At Noon

I will not burn these rags,
The cast-off clothing of my soul,
In the chill of dawn they covered
Its nude ugliness.

Now in the passionate noon
The no-good dames
Tattoo my flesh with the indelible
Ink of lust.

What are these dim rooms
And red ghost-lamps?
Tell me this city's name,
New York or Paris?

Heaven was somewhere about
A child ideal.
Ah! the disillusioned one cried,
You have come far.