“So you have tried—
So you have known
The bitter-sweetness of Attempt,
The quick determination and the dread despair
That grapple and possess you as you strive
For imagery.”
George questioned: “Imagery...?”
“That verse is more for me than you,” the poet explained. “'For imagery'—to get the right word, you know.”
“Rather!” said George. “It does for me too—in exams, when one is floored, you know.”
“Yes,” Margaret admitted doubtfully. “Ye-es. Don't interrupt between the verses, dear.”
Now emotion swelled her voice.
“Success be yours!
May you achieve
To heights you do not dream you'll ever touch;
The power's to your hand, the road before you lies—
Forward! The gods not always frown; anon
They'll kindly smile.”
“Why, that's splendid!” George cried. He put a cousinly arm about the poet; squeezed her to him. “Fancy you writing that for me! What a sympathetic little soul you are—and how clever!”
Breathless she disengaged herself: “I'm so glad you like it. It's a silly little thing—but it's real, isn't it? Come, there's father.”
She paused against denial of the poem's silliness, affirmation of its truth; but George, moody beneath Mr. Marrapit's eye, glinting behind the window, had moved forward.