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.