The purfled passion-blossom’s slow unclosing.
No rainbow’s purple e’er shall tinge our she-tale,
No censor’s yoke restrain its swift composing.
Moreover—quite apart from Muse’s purity—
There’s nothing half so dull as immaturity.
So please imagine—(though I know it’s risky
To trust in Britons for imagination,
Save those rare few whom peace-time’s hoarded whisky
Still fires to spiritual exaltation,
Or such as stand, when questioning House grows frisky,