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[pg 11]

If there be one among the Muses nine

Loves not so much Completion as the Will,

And less the austere saint than the fond sinner:

Loves scanty ruins, garlanded with years,

Better than lofty palaces entire:

To her I dedicate this spoiléd sheaf

Of rime that scarcely came to harvesting.

There is a window here in Magdalen

Composite, methinks, of fragments that stark Mars

Has scattered. Even so my verses be

Composite of memories and half-uttered dreams

Welded together sans due ordinance,

Which might have been far other, but that Mars

Scattered and harried them with his ruthless flail.

[pg 13]