NOT A LINE.
Dear Sir, I shall not write a line to-day,
Though many subjects merit my attention.
To take one instance only, there is May
(The month) at present in her last declension.
Lord, what a dance she leads us on her May-toes,
And spoils the beans and ruins the potatoes.
The gloomy gardener stands and counts the cost,
His once proud thoughts to sheer depression turning.
Darkly he marks the intempestive frost,
Though the laburnum still keeps on laburning,
And though the rose renews her ancient story
And bursts her bonds and blazes in her glory.
No, Sir, I shall not write a single line,
Not though the Tories storm with angry lips which
Salute the serried ranks of the combine
With shouts of "'journ, 'journ, 'journ" or howls for Ipswich.
These do not stir me, and I see, unheeding,
The Home Rule Bill receive its hundredth reading.
As for my dogs, at any other time—
One is a massive hound and three are particles—
They might provoke a stave or two of rhyme,
Or shine in prose and be described in articles.
But, if I owned the swift melodious Meynell,
To-day I would not write about my kennel.
The woes of butlers and the ways of cooks,
The contumely of wives, the scorn of daughters;
Golf, too, and tennis, or reviews of books;
Breezes and bees and trees and rippling waters,
All these are writable, but I, Sir, shun them—
Take thirty lines: I've been and gone and done them!
R. C. L.