But the silly, everyday sort of letter went on:—
“I’ve made a fool of myself with every bird that flies
And with Mohammed’s son, and I’ve told so many lies.”
But he couldn’t help adding at the end:—
“One or two things I’ve said are true:
History, Music, Memory,
Are still the invisible three,
And Love, invisible it’s true,
Still has the shape and smell of you.”
He wasn’t at all satisfied with this, and even when he had repeated it over two or three times to himself and once out loud he did not feel the glow of pride which usually suffused his being after he had composed a poem.