Gods in the Gutter

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who in a cafe sat,     And one was small and crapulous, and one was large and fat;     And one was eaten up with vice and verminous at that.     The first he spoke of secret sins, and gems and perfumes rare;     And velvet cats and courtesans voluptuously fair:     "Who is the Sybarite?" I asked. They answered: "Baudelaire."     The second talked in tapestries, by fantasy beguiled;     As frail as bubbles, hard as gems, his pageantries he piled;     "This Lord of Language, who is he?" They whispered "Oscar Wilde."     The third was staring at his glass from out abysmal pain;     With tears his eyes were bitten in beneath his bulbous brain.     "Who is the sodden wretch?" I said. They told me: "Paul Verlaine."     Oh, Wilde, Verlaine and Baudelaire, their lips were wet with wine;     Oh poseur, pimp and libertine! Oh cynic, sot and swine!     Oh votaries of velvet vice! . . . Oh gods of light divine!     Oh Baudelaire, Verlaine and Wilde, they knew the sinks of shame;     Their sun-aspiring wings they scorched at passion's altar flame;     Yet lo! enthroned, enskied they stand, Immortal Sons of Fame.     I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who walked with feet of clay,     With cruel crosses on their backs, along a miry way;     Who climbed and climbed the bitter steep to which men turn and pray.