<h2><SPAN name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></SPAN> Mr. Apollinax </h2>
<p>When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States<br/>
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.<br/>
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,<br/>
And of Priapus in the shrubbery<br/>
Gaping at the lady in the swing.<br/>
In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s<br/>
He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.<br/>
His laughter was submarine and profound<br/>
Like the old man of the seats<br/>
Hidden under coral islands<br/>
Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,<br/>
Dropping from fingers of surf.<br/>
I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair,<br/>
Or grinning over a screen<br/>
With seaweed in its hair.<br/>
I heard the beat of centaurs’ hoofs over the hard turf<br/>
As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.<br/>
“He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”—<br/>
“He has pointed ears ... he must be unbalanced,”—<br/>
“There was something he said that I might have challenged.”<br/>
Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah<br/>
I remember a slice of lemon and a bitten macaroon.<br/></p>
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