His Mother is his chiefest lack Who in some heathy upland place Tidied his sturdy socks of black And licked his face; He turns to see us saunter by The level highway hand-in-hand— I think the Baby Goat knows why We understand.
BOURNEMOUTH TO POOLE
I BOURNEMOUTH
Quite given o’er to shameful destinies Yet may I muse what graces once were thine Whose little brooks descend the tawny chine So silver-silent on their gold degrees; Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seas Have drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shine Under the coif of heaven that doth confine Thy tender headlands and their tress of trees. Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand, Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown, So fallen;—doth it much import what hand Cast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown, Or, on this lovely and reluctant land, Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?
II POOLE HARBOUR
O valiant reach of land that doth include The striving sea in such a large embrace! O valiant homes that overlook the face Of water by a hundred keels subdued! Poole, thou art map of thine own fortitude, And, in thy building, eloquent of a race That singed the beard of Spain and for a lace Fought on this quay the Georgian excise-brood. Old, and thy harbour skies more scantly sparred, Thy constant stones survey the fickle flow Of Tide and Time; and on thy casements barred Burns Memory like a crimson afterglow, Bright as the blood-red hollyhocks that blow Through the grey timber in this silent yard.