Grow fat once more, and seem to be made full!
When you and you sit by the fire,
I would to God thou wert my own good son—
τούτῳ μάλιστα δὴ προσθετέον
O Lord of light and laughter and desire!
He replaced the row of little blue books, where he might find them were they needed, and read over the poem they had given him from their storehouse.
Yes, it was the right stuff, he felt sure—and authentic too. Why, the æsthetic effort had stimulated him. There was one more to do. And he remembered his untasted cocktail, tasted it, and forgot his weariness. For nearly an hour poem after poem flowed incontinent from his pen. There were twenty-two in all, but from the glittering galaxy he chose but one. It was indeed a starry gem—and all his own.
To One Whom and Whither I Wot Not
Since morrow sees our endermost adieu,