TO WILFRID MEYNELL
His Friend complains of Prose that would never
serve her.
THRICE foolish I that, to portray
For you apart my heart and mind,
Bid foolish Prose the gift convey—
No thrall of mine and proved unkind—
Who flung both heart and mind away.
He never did my hests with joy
On deftest feet with fleetness shod,
But lagged in byways o'er some toy
More meet for babyhood. A rod
Reward my graceless errand boy!
On many a fair suit swiftly sent
He still hath stayed nor weighed the cost,
Reluctant to your door he bent,
The string of my thoughts' parcel lost
And gone the gist of mine intent.
Wherefore that ruffian lad I curse,
For 'tis his guilt hath spilt my sense,
For you, lest you should take for worse
His lack of wit, this evidence
Of my regard I send by Verse.
"SIDERA SUNT TESTES ET MATUTINA
PRUINA"
THE stars are witness and the morning frost,
The shuttered inn, the icy lane, the hoar
Alley transmuted at the keen moon's cost
To silver birch from leaden sycamore,
The shivering steps, the door that barely stands
Ajar, the altar's weekday thrift of gold,
The hasty breath that dews my helpless hands,
At what white heat I come through this white cold:
How before day blows up the smouldering sun
I feed my ashen hope with kindling phrase,
Cast fuel on my faith, watch the flame run
From brand to brand of love and by that blaze
Pillow my head upon His Heart whereon
Lay but last night the lovelocks of St. John.