THE UNNATURAL AND THE STRANGE

The unnatural and the strange

Have a perfume of their own

Full of the constancy in chance,

Of the smile at heart a groan:

The unnatural and the strange

Have a perfume of their own.

Flowers are they in a vase

Of no human workmanship,

 The unnatural that dismays

And the strange strong as a whip:

Flowers are they in a vase

Of no human workmanship.

They have the scent of troubled peace,

Of disturbed halls of joy,

This the scent they have, which is

A thing half to sting and cloy:

They have the scent of troubled peace,

Of disturbed halls of joy.

The unnatural and the strange

Have a perfume of their own

That of human flesh, of change

Made corruption without moan:

The unnatural and the strange

Have a perfume of their own.