With the best of God’s hours,
I have left you at last.
ALICE MEYNELL
160. In Manchester Square (In memoriam T. H.)
The paralytic man has dropped in death
The crossing-sweeper’s brush to which he clung,
One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath,
Although his hair was young.
I saw this year the winter vines of France,
Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth,