TO ALL MY FRIENDS

"There's nothing worth the wear of winning
But laughter and the love of friends."
—Hilaire Belloc.
If those who have been kind to me
Should ever chance these rhymes to see;
Then let them know, upon the spot,
Their kindnesses are not forgot!
If any worthy task was done,
The acts were never mine, not one:
For parent, teacher, wife or friend
Inspired the will, foresaw the end.
What sorrows do our friends avert!
How loyal, far beyond desert!
And yet how churlish, dumb and crude
Are all our words of gratitude.
Then O remember, you and YOU,
My old familiars, leal and true—
The love that bonded you and me
Is not forgot, will never be!

A GRUB STREET RECESSIONAL

O noble gracious English tongue
Whose fibres we so sadly twist,
For caitiff measures he has sung
Have pardon on the journalist.
For mumbled metre, leaden pun,
For slipshod rhyme, and lazy word,
Have pity on this graceless one—
Thy mercy on Thy servant, Lord!
The metaphors and tropes depart,
Our little clippings fade and bleach:
There is no virtue and no art
Save in straightforward Saxon speech.
Yet not in ignorance or spite,
Nor with Thy noble past forgot
We sinned: indeed we had to write
To keep a fire beneath the pot.
Then grant that in the coming time,
With inky hand and polished sleeve,
In lucid prose or honest rhyme
Some worthy task we may achieve—
Some pinnacled and marbled phrase,
Some lyric, breaking like the sea,
That we may learn, not hoping praise,
The gift of Thy simplicity.