The Poet.
My gifted nephew Eric
Till just before the War
Was steeped in esoteric
And antinomian lore,
Now verging on the mystic,
Now darkly symbolistic,
Now frankly Futuristic,
And modern to the core.
Versed in the weird grivoiserie
Affected by Verlaine,
And charmed by the chinoiserie
Of Marinetti's strain,
In all its multiplicity
He worshipped eccentricity,
And found his chief felicity
In aping the insane.
And yet this freak ink-slinger,
When England called for men,
Straight ceased to be a singer
And threw away his pen,
Until, with twelve months' training
And six months' hard campaigning,
The lure of paper-staining
Has vanished from his ken.
For now his former crazes
He utterly eschews;
The world on which he gazes
Has lost its hectic hues;
No more a bard crepuscular
Who writes in script minuscular,
He only woos the muscular
And military Muse.
Transformed by contact hourly
With heroes simple-souled,
He looks no longer sourly
On men of normal mould,
But, purged of mental vanity
And erudite inanity,
The clay of his humanity
Is turning fast to gold.
"THE ROAD TO RAGDAD."
Provincial Paper.
Not even Little Willie could think of a better way.
"Second-Hand Hearse Wanted; body must be up to date and reasonable."
Bristol Times and Mirror.
And not insist on a brand-new outfit.